Embers And Illusion

The ring of fire flickers—then *shatters* into a thousand glowing shards, each one hovering like a dying star.

Malakar stands unharmed in the center, his hands raised. “You forget… fire was *my* first lesson to you.”

With a snap of his fingers, the embers twist midair—and reform into **mirrors**, floating around Picoca like a deadly halo. Each one reflects not her face… but twisted versions: Picoca burning, weeping, broken—images meant to fracture her focus.

Her breath hitches.

This is no longer just flame against flame.

It’s memory against magic.

“I taught you everything,” Malakar says softly. “And I know every scar on your soul.”

Suddenly—one mirror pulses red. From it steps a figure: an illusion of **young Picoca**, bound in chains, screaming as villagers chant *"Witch!"*

Picoca stumbles back.

“Stop it!” she shouts—but he only tilts his head.

“Or should I show them what *really* happened that night?” Malakar whispers loud enough for the hidden crowd to hear. “How you begged? How you *broke*?”

Her eyes blaze—not with tears, but fury reborn.

“No,” she growls through clenched teeth. "You showed me pain... so I’ll show you **power**."

She slams both palms into the earth—

And this time?

The ground itself ignites beneath him.

Not with flames…

But with **her name** — written in fire across the soil: ***PICOCA*** — blazing so bright it blinds all who watch.

What does Malakar do now? And more importantly… what does *she* do next?

Malakar blinks hard, trying to clear his vision from the blinding light. His smirk falters, replaced by surprise.

The villagers gasp in awe. They whisper amongst themselves, their beliefs crumbling under the overwhelming display.

Malakar composes himself, his gaze never leaving Picoca's. "You've learned."

Picoca stares back defiantly. "I don't need lessons from *you*, Malakar... not anymore."

"You’ve learned," Malakar says again—this time softer, almost like a father admitting his child has grown.

Then, in one swift motion, he rips his cloak open—and shadows *explode* outward like wings.

The ground cracks beneath him, not with fire… but with **ink-black vines**, writhing from the earth like cursed roots. They surge toward Picoca—not to burn her—but to *bind*, to drain, to whisper forgotten spells into her bones.

She leaps back just in time—flames erupting at her feet—but one tendril lashes around her ankle.

And instantly—

*She sees it.*

A memory not hers: a hidden chamber beneath the church… a book bound in skin… and a name carved into stone: *"Malakar was never the hunter…"*

*"He was always the sacrifice."*

The truth flickers—dangerous and deep.

But before she can process it…

The vine pulls hard—

And Picoca is yanked off her feet—toward him.

Picoca's eyes widen in surprise as she's yanked forward. She tries to summon her fire, but the enchanted vines drain her magic instantly, leaving her weakened and vulnerable.

Malakar's expression remains steely as he tugs her closer. "You should've stayed down," he says softly.

The villagers mutter, uncertain what to do with this turn of events. The priest, his face pale, clutches his rosary tighter.

( To be continued )

AUTHOR: please for any advice let me know 🙏.

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