The Mage In The Mist

While the village burns with chaos, a lone figure watches from the hilltop—hooded, silent, unmoving.

The wind carries whispers through the trees… *“She wasn’t meant to survive.”*

This is **Malakar**, the Shadow Weave—the mage who once taught Picoca the secrets of flame and illusion… before sealing her fate.

His eyes glow faintly violet as he raises a hand toward the firelit square below. “Clever girl,” he murmurs, a smirk curling beneath his hood. “But fire without control is just destruction. And you? You’re dancing on the edge of oblivion.”

With a flick of his wrist, shadows slither from under his cloak—serpents made of smoke—sliding into cracks beneath church doors and burrowing through earth toward her pyre…

Because Malakar doesn’t fight with torches or swords.

He fights by rewriting reality itself.

Perhaps she looks up from her fiery dance, her gaze drawn to the hilltop where she senses a presence watching her. She can feel the shift in the air, like a dark breeze carrying a warning. Her instincts tingling, she knows someone powerful is there, witnessing her defiance. But she doesn't let fear show on her face. Instead, she continues to dance, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips, daring the unseen observer to reveal himself.

Picoca continues to dance, but her every movement seems more deliberate now, her steps carefully chosen. She glances up toward the hilltop, searching the shadows for any sign of Malakar.

The townsfolk, oblivious to the unseen tension, continue to watch her with wide-eyed fascination. The priest, his earlier bravado replaced by unease, casts furtive glances toward the hilltop, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

The wind picks up, carrying with it an eerie whisper, almost like a voice in Picoca's ear. *"You're playing with fire."*

Picoca pauses, the wind's whispering words sending a chill down her spine. Her instincts are on high alert, her eyes narrowed as she scans the shadows of the hilltop.

The townsfolk notice her pause, murmurs of uncertainty rippling through the crowd. The priest, a mix of confusion and growing fear in his eyes, looks back and forth between Picoca and the hilltop.

The voice whispers again, clearer now, *"Look up."*

PIcoca takes a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She looks up toward the hilltop, her gaze fixed where she senses the source of the voice. The villagers watch, their curiosity and excitement mixed with growing unease.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerges—a man in a hood, his face hidden in darkness.

"Malakar," Picoca hisses, her gaze locked with the dark mage's.

The crowd falls quiet, the air thick with suspense.

Malakar stands on the hilltop, his hood still casting shadows across his face. He regards Picoca with a smirk, his violet eyes glinting in the firelight. "You felt me."

Picoca, still on the pyre, squares her shoulders. "What do you want, wizard?"

Malakar descends slowly, his steps measured. "Isn't it obvious? I want you to stop this... nonsense."

( To be continued )

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