The Extra Wants Control

Frustration twisted in Moira's gut. They'd been circling for what felt like hours, lost within the labyrinthine depths of the tomb. In her walks she had gone through different monsters and trials and found Carson as well as other dragons and they were moving together. Now, emerging into a chamber she vaguely recognized, her heart lurched into her throat.

It was the same chamber where Azrael and his group had camped. But the scene that greeted her was a grotesque tableau.

Bodies, some grotesquely contorted, littered the floor. Arrows protruded from lifeless forms, while others bore the marks of brutal bladework. The stench of blood and something else – a sickly sweet herbal aroma – hung heavy in the air.

Moira's gaze darted around, searching for Azrael and the others. Relief washed over her as she spotted their figures clustered near the entrance of their tent, their faces etched with grim determination.

But before she could call out, another figure materialized in the chamber entrance. Carson, the cocky blue dragon she'd reluctantly befriended, stumbled in, flanked by two other dragons, their scales gleaming in the dim light. However, their entrance was marred by the sight of a figure lurking behind Carson, a cruel smile plastered on his face.

Eldran, the bandit leader, his face contorted with a mix of desperation and triumph, held a wickedly sharp knife pressed against Carson's throat. The playful swagger Carson usually carried had vanished, replaced by a mask of terror.

"What is happening here?" Moira's said.

No answer came. Her gaze locked with Azrael's, a silent question hanging in the air. But before he could respond, Eldran's voice, laced with a venomous snarl, filled the chamber.

"Don't follow me, or else this dragon dies!"

Moira's blood ran cold. Fury surged through her, battling with a primal fear for her newfound companion. "What are you doing, you mongrel!" she spat, her voice trembling with a dangerous anger.

Eldran, his eyes darting between his hostage and the approaching figures, ignored her. "Shut up! You bitch!" he barked, the unsteady grip on his knife a stark contrast to his harsh words.

Without another word, he started dragging Carson backwards, the other two dragons flinching at the sight of their kin threatened. With a final menacing glare at the group, Eldran vanished into the darkness at the far end of the chamber, Carson's muffled pleas echoing after him.

Silence descended once more, broken only by the ragged gasps of those still struggling to breathe amongst the fallen bandits but they were shot and killed shortly after. The air crackled with a tension thicker than the tomb's stale air. Moira, fueled by a potent mix of frustration and rage, locked eyes with Azrael. This unexpected turn of events had just thrown their plans into chaos.

But one thing was clear – they had to save Carson.

Despair threatened to engulf Moira as Eldran, the bandit leader, disappeared into the inky depths of the chamber's far end, dragging a terrified Carson with him. A primal need to protect her companion warred with the cold logic of caution.

Azrael's voice, low and urgent, cut through the paralysis gripping Moira. "We need to follow him. Now."

Moira didn't like Azrael, or maybe anyone. That was clear. But for some reason she felt she could trust him.

Azrael explain to the others that he should move with Moira, that the two of them would attract less attention. He said that it was mostly his fault that this happened so he was taking responsibility.

And Moira's reason for going was a reason she herself knew, Carson was important to Axl and she was afraid Axl may blame her if something happened to Carson and that he may make things difficult for her. So she had to save him.

Azrael, his gaze held a steely resolve that mirrored Moira's own determination. Together, they sprinted after Eldran, the other members of Azrael's group trailing close behind. The air grew colder with each step, the darkness deepening until it felt like a living entity, swallowing them whole.

Suddenly, the chamber floor lurched, the ground beneath their feet giving way. Moira shrieked, the world tilting on its axis as she plummeted into an abyss. A desperate cry for Azrael tore from her throat, lost in the echoing screams of the others.

Then, a searing pain lanced through her arm. She opened her eyes to find herself dangling precariously over a seemingly bottomless pit, her fingers wrapped around a jagged rock face. Below, jagged spikes gleamed menacingly in the faint magical light filtering from above.

Panic clawed at her throat, but then a strong hand clamped around hers, anchoring her like a lifeline. She looked up to see Azrael, his face etched with concern as he hauled her back onto solid ground.

The relief was so intense it almost made her knees buckle. But the moment was shattered by a searing hiss. A glowing red spear materialized in mid-air, aimed straight at Azrael's chest.

Moira reacted instinctively, a surge of protective energy erupting from her core. The force field she conjured deflected the spear with a clang, sending it skittering across the stone floor. But the exertion left her drained, her vision swimming.

Azrael, his chest heaving, stared at her with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. Before he could speak, a hulking stone golem materialized in the center of the chamber, its glowing red eyes boring into them, it was 7 star.

This was no ordinary ambush. They had stumbled into another one of the tomb's trials, and the consequences of failing were far too real.

The golem roared, shaking the chamber, and lumbered towards them. Azrael, barked orders, directing Moira to take cover while he engaged the golem. He lunged forward, his longsword a blur as he unleashed a fiery attack.

Moira, despite the tremor in her legs, knew she couldn't stand by. She gritted her teeth, channeling her remaining energy into a protective barrier around Azrael, deflecting a blow from the golem's massive fist.

The battle raged on. Azrael, his movements hampered by the earlier fall, fought with a desperate intensity. Moira, her reserves dwindling, struggled to maintain her barrier. Just as the golem's fist was about to connect with Azrael, a sickening crack echoed through the chamber.

Moira's barrier had shattered, leaving Azrael exposed. She screamed, a primal cry of fear and helplessness. But before the golem's fist could land, Azrael shoved her out of the way, taking the full force of the blow on his shoulder.

A choked gasp escaped his lips as he crumpled to the ground, his face contorted in pain. Moira's world narrowed to Azrael's fallen form, fear replaced by a surge of fierce protectiveness. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her arm, she rushed to his side, cradling his head in her lap.

"Azrael!" Her voice shook, a tremor of fear and something unfamiliar, something akin to…care.

He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. They locked with hers, surprise giving way to a flicker of warmth. "You… saved me," he rasped, his voice weak.

Moira nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She tore a strip of cloth from her uniform, her movements swift and focused despite her lingering fear. "Hold still," she commanded, her voice surprisingly firm, as she began to bind his injured shoulder.

In that moment, amidst the chaos of the trial and the looming threat of the golem, a fragile bond began to form. The hostility that had initially marked their encounters had melted away, replaced by a grudging respect and a flicker of something more. They had faced danger together, and in that shared experience, a seed of trust had been sown.

************

Keith and Pete had stopped Elrohir to ask him about bandits and a bearkin hostage. Elrohir didn't respond and Keith gave a nod to Pete who backed away.

The air crackled with a tension as thick as the stale tomb air as Keith, the epitome of a meticulous man in his tailored suit, stalked towards Elrohir. Unlike Keith's clinical demeanor, Elrohir exuded a deadly calm, his stance reminiscent of a seasoned assassin. But beneath Elrohir's John Wick-like exterior, a faint glow emanated – a telltale sign of his aura manipulation.

The flickering torches cast grotesque shadows on the chamber walls as Keith launched into a flurry of attacks, his movements surprisingly swift for someone dressed for a board meeting. He wasn't a fighter, not in the traditional sense, he was a surgeon. His weapon was a scalpel, his aim precise and lethal.

Each lunge targeted Elrohir's major pressure points, aiming to sever vital arteries with pinpoint accuracy.

Elrohir, however, was a whirlwind of wind and steel. With an agility that defied his weathered appearance, he danced away from Keith's strikes. But Elrohir wasn't solely relying on reflexes. Invisible strings of wind, manipulated by his aura, materialized, whipping razor-sharp daggers coated in a faint, magical sheen towards Keith.

The metallic clang of steel on steel echoed through the chamber as Keith, with inhuman reflexes, deflected the flying daggers. Sparks flew, momentarily illuminating the grim scene. In the background, a bored groan resonated. It was Fat Pete, the hulking brute who accompanied Keith.

He sprawled on a pile of cushions he'd conjured from his spatial storage ring, a half-eaten drumstick dangling from his greasy fingers.

"Come on, Keith," Pete bellowed, his voice laced with a thick Brooklyn accent. "Wrap this up already! I got places to be, people to meet."

Keith ignored him, his focus solely on Elrohir. He knew brute force wouldn't work. He needed a precise opening, a single, fatal strike. He feinted towards Elrohir's left, but instead, twisted his body with unnatural speed, aiming a vicious kick at Elrohir's unguarded knee.

Elrohir, caught off guard by the sudden change in tactics, barely managed to sidestep the blow. The force of the missed kick, however, whipped a loose dagger flying, its trajectory taking it straight towards Fat Pete's unsuspecting head.

Time seemed to slow down. Elrohir's eyes widened in horror, Keith's lips stretched into a predatory grin. But in that split second, a surge of emerald light erupted from Fat Pete's massive form. An invisible barrier shimmered into existence, deflecting the dagger with a resounding clang.

The surprise attack had broken the rhythm of the fight. Elrohir glared at Fat Pete, his aura flickering with a volatile mix of anger and frustration. Keith, ever the opportunist, saw his chance. With a predatory glint in his eyes, he launched another attack, a flurry of precise strikes aimed to end the fight. The outcome of the clash now hung in the balance.

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