Chapter 65: Through Fire and Fog

The tunnels beneath the Matteo estate were long and winding, carved generations ago as a last-ditch escape route for noble blood. They twisted like veins under the land, damp with salt and echoing with hurried footsteps. At last, the exodus emerged on the craggy cliffside, over two miles from the burning heart of WindSwept Manor.

Aurora and Cheri worked quickly, accounting for every soul. Elena and Niegal moved among the people, rallying them with steady hands and steady hearts. The estate had fallen under siege — surrounded on all sides by over 500 soldiers and Inquisition agents loyal to the Church of Saintess Yidali.

Except for one vulnerable edge — the cliffs. Jagged, steep, treacherous. Few dared scale them. Fewer still knew how to use them to their advantage.

Elena's eyes flashed. The sea wind caught her curls, her gaze locking with Niegal's. He was already watching her. Always watching.

"This is insane," she murmured, clutching his arm. "But it might work."

Niegal gave a small nod, the silver in his eyes burning with trust. "Then let's make it happen."

They gathered every practitioner they could find — 200 strong. Hooded, weary, but determined. Together, they slipped back through the tunnels, cloaking themselves with old invisibility spells. The air shimmered as they vanished into silence.

Niegal led one group. Elena the other. Each group exited from a different hidden mouth along the cliffside, invisible even to the keenest scout.

Before parting, they embraced behind the twisted roots of an ancient ash tree. Quiet laughter rippled through their followers as the couple shared a final kiss, fingers lingering.

Then, into the dark.

At the foot of the cliffs, the two groups converged in silence. Elena unrolled an old parchment — a massive sigil scrawled in deep crimson ink. The spell was ancient, something she'd studied long ago in the forbidden texts. A storm-summoning ritual powered by collective will.

Hand in hand, heart to heart, the rebels began to chant.

The air shifted.

Clouds gathered unnaturally fast — brooding, heavy, trembling with withheld fury. The ocean heaved. Mist rose, curling over the cliffs like ghostly fingers. Thunder cracked somewhere overhead.

Within the siege camp, the Church's forces grew uneasy. Eyes darted into the fog, which thickened with every breath. So thick they couldn't see their own outstretched hands.

Then — chaos.

The Matteo army struck like wraiths. Guerrilla-style, silent and swift, using the storm's cover to dismantle their enemies from within. Screams were swallowed by the wind. Arrows vanished into nothing. Magic flickered in flashes of red and green.

Night devoured the battlefield. A new moon cast no light. The fog thickened until it became impossible to tell up from down.

By dawn, the Church was in shambles.

Of the 500 who arrived… only 60 crawled away alive.

Cheers erupted from the estate ruins. Victory, hard-fought and bloody.

Niegal pushed through the jubilant crowd, searching, eyes wild and frantic. He barely registered the hands clapping his back, the shouts of triumph.

Then- there!

Elena stood a few yards away, beaming. Their eyes met, and again, time seemed to stand still.

She ran to him, laughing as he swept her into a kiss, lifting her effortlessly by the waist. Their lips met in a desperate, joyous collision.

He kissed her again, quick, laughing, relieved. She touched his cheek. "We did it!" She breathed. He grinned. "We did."

But the joy shattered in an instant.

POW!

Somewhere in the fog, a rifle cracked. A single shot. Time stopped.

Elena gasped, her eyes wide. Niegal's joy turned to horror.