Date: April 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Datuk lunged forward with such speed that Ulviya barely registered the movement. The cloak of bearskin billowed behind him, the hood with its burning amber eyes making him look like a ghost of an ancient warrior. The axe in his hands, heavy and unwieldy just moments ago, now sang through the air, slicing the white light with unnatural ease.
The white Herald met him calmly. Its two swords, woven from light, crossed before its chest, and when Datuk's axe crashed against them, a clang rang out that deafened Ulviya's ears. Sparks — white, blinding — flew in all directions, and the sand beneath the combatants sank, forming a shallow crater.
Datuk did not retreat. He attacked again, and again, and again. His strikes rained down like hail — chopping, thrusting, sweeping. The Berserker Spirit, amplified by Sobra's power, accelerated his blood, made his heart beat with furious speed, his muscles work at their limit. He felt no fatigue. No pain. Only rage. Only the will to win.
The Herald deflected the attacks with frightening ease. Its swords moved faster than the eye could follow, and each axe strike met steel, each lunge a block. But it did not counterattack. Only defended. As if studying its opponent. As if testing his endurance.
"He's... holding his own," Rosh whispered, watching the fight. His mismatched eyes — green and brown — were fixed on the combatants. "But it's not enough. The Herald hasn't even broken a sweat."
"Then help him," Ulviya said, and steel sounded in her voice.
Rosh was silent for a moment. His fingers, folded in an intricate pattern, twitched faintly. He knew his Vector Spirit was almost useless against the Herald — attacks scattered without reaching their target, causing no harm. But he couldn't just stand and watch.
"If I can't attack," he thought, and his fingers began to move, tracing new, more complex patterns, "I'll support. Speed up Datuk. Slow down the Herald. Disrupt it. Maybe that will give us a chance."
He raised his hands, and invisible lines of force shot toward the combatants. One touched Datuk, and the dwarf felt his body grow lighter, faster, each movement requiring less effort. Rosh's vectors did not attack — they supported, accelerated, guided.
A second line shot toward the Herald. It did not try to change the direction of its swords — that was useless. It tried to slow it. Make its movements slightly more sluggish, slightly more predictable. The effect was minimal — the Herald barely noticed the interference — but Datuk felt the difference. His strikes began to land more often.
A third line, the thinnest, the most complex, waited for its moment. Rosh did not use it — saved it for a critical moment. If Datuk missed a strike, if the Herald decided to counterattack, he would try to deflect the dwarf out of the way. The chance was minuscule — his Vector Spirit was not designed for such strain — but he had to try.
Ulviya watched the fight, her left hand, her living vine, stirring anxiously. She was useless here. Her attacks did not reach their target, her whip crumbled to dust before even touching the Herald. But she could do something else.
She closed her eyes and reached for her power. For the plants Bagurai had planted in her soul many months ago. For those she had never used in battle. For those that could help.
"Healing root," she thought, and her fingers began to glow with a faint, green light. "The one that grows in the Tree's shadow. The one that heals wounds and restores strength."
She opened her eyes and looked at her hands. From her palm, from the very depths of her being, thin, flexible vines began to grow. They were not for attack — for support. She wove them into two bracelets — simple, unremarkable, but alive. One for Datuk. One for Rosh.
"Here," she said, holding out the bracelets. "They will heal you. Gradually. Not quickly. But it's better than nothing."
Rosh took the bracelet without a word. He felt the warmth emanating from it — faint, barely perceptible, but alive. He put it on his wrist, and at that moment, his fatigue, his exhaustion, eased slightly. Not much — a drop in the ocean — but enough to understand: it worked.
Datuk, deflecting another of the Herald's attacks, stepped back and caught the bracelet mid-air. Put it on without looking, and lunged back into the fight. His wounds — deep, bleeding — began to close a little faster. Not as fast as if he were resting, but faster. And that was enough.
Ulviya felt her strength leaving her. Each bracelet demanded energy, and energy was not infinite. She was only a Warrior, and her reserves were small compared to the Pillars. But she did not stop. She continued to pour power into the bracelets, feeling her vine weaken, her spirit contract, fatigue settle on her shoulders.
"Hold on," she told herself. "Hold on as long as you can. They need you."
The fight continued. Datuk attacked, and the Herald defended. Rosh supported, accelerated, slowed. Ulviya healed, draining herself. They acted as a single mechanism — imperfect, fragile, but alive.
And at some point, it worked.
The Herald hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second — Rosh managed to apply a slowing vector at the exact moment Datuk struck. That was enough. The axe, amplified by the Berserker Spirit and accelerated by the vectors, slid past the sword and slashed across the creature's chest.
The white fabric tore. From beneath, not blood — light. Silver, blinding, it poured from the wound, and the Herald, for the first time in the entire fight, stepped back. Across its chest, from left shoulder to right side, ran a long, deep gash.
Datuk paused, breathing heavily. His axe was raised, and from the blade dripped white light — the Herald's blood.
"I... I got him," he said, and surprise sounded in his voice.
"I see," Rosh replied, and something like respect flickered in his mismatched eyes.
Ulviya stared at the wound, her heart pounding in her throat. They had done it. They had wounded the Herald. So it was vulnerable. So they had a chance.
But the creature did not scream. Did not writhe in pain. It simply stood, watching them with its sightless eyes, and its wound, deep, long, slowly healed. The light stopped flowing, the fabric knit together.
"It's... healing," Ulviya whispered, her voice trembling.
"Of course," Rosh said, and there was no surprise in his voice. "It's a Herald. It won't die from one scratch."
Datuk gripped his axe. His hands trembled — not from fear, from fatigue. The Berserker Spirit demanded fuel, and there was almost none left. He felt his strength leaving him, his body growing heavier, each movement harder.
"Then we need to land another strike," he said. "Stronger. Deadlier."
"Easy to say," Rosh replied. "You can barely stand. I can barely move my fingers. And she," he nodded at Ulviya, "is about to collapse from exhaustion."
Ulviya didn't answer. She knew he was right. Her strength was nearly gone, and the bracelets she had created were draining the last of her energy. A little more, and she would fall.
But she would not retreat. Not now. Not here.
"Then we put everything into one strike," she said, and her voice was firm as steel. "From different sides. Simultaneously. It's our only chance."
Datuk and Rosh exchanged glances. In their eyes — tired, exhausted — something like agreement flickered.
"Alright," Datuk said. "All or nothing."
"All or nothing," Rosh repeated.
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They had no time for fear. Only resolve. Only hope. Only one strike that would decide everything.