...the Abyss shall gaze into you.

The moment that John had been flown away by the harpy, the battlefield had changed.

It was as if Velvet’s cry had acted as a catalyst. All of her forces had suddenly surged, tapping into some unknown new reserve. Moira felt it herself, dispatching her opponents with such a degree of efficient brutality that, at any other time, would have caused her to question her control.

Not now, though. At that moment, she moved without thought, years of training serving her as muscle memory decimated her foes. Without hesitation, her feet ran towards the hilltop in pursuit of where John had been taken.

A barrier slammed up mere inches from where her next step fell, forcing her to halt.

There was no pause to consider. The heavy head of silver steel on her warhammer slammed into the magical construct with the might of a Warden of the Golden Rose. It shuddered, and held. Again and again, she crashed her weapon upon the obstructing barrier.

Only when a voice pierced her focus did she stop, “Moira, stop it, for fuck’s sake!”

Moira turned, finding her allies gathered just behind her.

It was clear Erica had been the one to speak, and Moira opened her mouth to respond. The words refused to come, and she closed it again. The blonde’s eyes showed pained understanding.

Sir Hunde, the senior knight of her squad, spoke instead, “This must be a powered shield. It will hold until the battery fails, Warden. Damaging it will speed that process, but…”

Moira nodded, slipping back into the role of command. “The only way forward is patience. I understand, Sir Hunde.” She spared a terse smile for the grandfatherly knight, grateful for his tact.

He tipped his head, acknowledging her, and she continued, “If it is a powered shield, then they are entrapped within as much as we are stuck without. Spread the squad across the perimeter of the barrier. In light of new circumstances, the first priority is ensuring Newman’s safety when the barrier falls.”

She caught the older man’s eye. “Once John is reacquired, we can attempt to take prisoners for interrogation and trial.”

His eyes hardened, and he nodded once, then moved to spread the orders.

An uneasy silence took the place of the cacophony of steel and battle that had filled the space less than a minute ago.

The sight of the pagoda filled her with helplessness in a way that was wholly unfamiliar and unwelcome. Even when things went wrong for her, she knew what to do, she knew what actions to take. The fact that the only course of action she had was to wait was wringing something in her chest like a cheap cleaning rag.

The shield was relatively small, as such things went. The hilltop was close enough that she could see figures moving. Close enough that she knew instinctively that she could reach it in the span of fifteen seconds. Right now, probably less.

Moira **** herself to turn away from it, and looked at the remaining people gathered nearby.

Erica’s expression was tight and pained. It filtered through Moira’s mind that the blonde had been the one to untether John and let him be taken. She knew the reason, Velvet would have been dragged along as well, but she didn’t envy the other woman being the one to make that call.

Katherine, the stray freelancer from the enchantress’ store, had sheathed her weapon and seemed to be calm, simply waiting. It was only on closer inspection that Moira noticed the tension that held her muscles, and the way her closed hands flexed minutely into fists and back. Her hands which were doused in blood as if she’d found a vat to dip them in. The other woman caught her eye as Moira scanned her figure and found more blood scattered across her.

The Warden realised there was more splattered across her cheeks, then her stomach sank like a stone when the woman shortly clipped, “It is John’s. I owe my life.” Her eyes returned to the distant pagoda without further explanation.

Velvet was the worst to see. She stood listlessly, tears flowing unnoticed down her cheeks as she stared sightlessly at the barrier in front of them. Her hands held the handle and short amount of cane that remained of her weapon, a clean slice ending it after only an inch or two.

Several minutes passed in silence. A quiet voice spoke, broken and pained, “I couldn’t- I- He’s gone.”

Velvet’s words echoed such a degree of crushingly powerful emotion that Moira couldn’t help but turn to her. Her eyes still seemed to look at the barrier right in front of her as she continued, “He’s gone and I can’t even see his magic through this!”

A sob broke through, and as all three of them shifted to comfort her, something changed. They felt it before they saw it, Velvet’s body stiffening suddenly as her unique senses caught the change an instant before it hit the rest of them. A sudden explosion of magical presence within the barrier, probably an aura that insisted on making itself known.

For all her Gaia-gifted might, Moira was unskilled in the reading of auras and similar magical sensing. Lorelei had sought to teach her, explaining the ways she saw the world through blotches of colour and images of that which was yet to come. She still took lessons with the seer from time to time, but the redhead lacked more than the barest amount of proficiency in the skill.

Be that as it may, she was sensitive enough to do a basic assessment of an aura, and to roughly identify the intent behind it. Usually, the process reminded her of silk sliding across silk. The gentle whisper, the delicate touch, the smoothness of the aura’s edges.

For this one? She didn’t get a choice but to feel it. The whisper was a lion’s roar that rattled her senses. Instead of reaching out to touch it, it slammed into her and pounded at her mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Rather than a smoothly polished edge, the jagged teeth of shattered stone were **** towards her, constantly shifting and roiling.

It was all raw power, unrefined and primal. Even standing at the edge of it like this, it felt like she was trying to hold a campfire in her bare hands, or control the flow of a river with nothing more than her willpower. And it was coming from the pagoda.

Then she saw the darkness, the smoke. The inky clouds that rolled like mist across the ground from under the railings of the structure atop the hill. Smoky shades of black and grey, some kind of magical mist which thickened into a fog.

“That… It almost looks like the magic that makes my axes,” Erica muttered to herself, puzzlement in her tone. “But there’s no way that’s possible naturally. And that aura is…”

The blonde trailed off, but Moira didn’t turn to her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of them.

Within moments, the entire dome of the barrier was swirling with smoke and shadow. It never seemed to stop shifting, slowly coiling and swirling, the movement offering flashes of sight to the situation within. Just enough to tease and taunt, never enough to see clearly.

Then the screaming started.

A long feminine noise of sheer terror echoed alone, for a moment that felt far longer than it truly lasted, before abruptly cutting off. Moira’s finely tuned hearing caught the wet sound of blood and flesh thudding into the ground, a weight settling in her stomach.

Where there had been one scream, now there was a chorus. **** shouts of aggression, terrified screams, fearful cries. Weapons clattering to the ground, feet slamming into wood and dirt, all of it melding into a brutal cacophony. Flashes of light lit the fog intermittently, as spells and abilities were thrown with reckless abandon within the barrier.

She caught glimpses, through gaps in the smoke.

The light within was dim, dulled by the unnatural coverage. She saw figures moving, running and jumping and charging. Weapons flashing in the light of magic, the sun too weak to reach them. Blue was by far the most common colour that illuminated the smoke, unsurprisingly. Most people’s mana took a vibrant shade of almost neon blue.

She couldn’t truly see, the shifting fog obscuring too much of the dome’s boundary to get clear lines of sight, but occasionally they highlighted silhouettes for mere moments. Even when they didn’t, the light still told a story to someone with the right knowledge.

Bright, stationary flashes meant either explosive spells or martial arts. Those were common, and the accompanying vibrations that shook the ground defined which were spells and which were martial arts.

Then there were the streaks of light which lit the fog like stars shooting through a clouded night sky. Those were ranged spells, projectiles, enchanted weapons and the like.

The only other type she could distinguish through the smog were the sparking motes of magic bouncing through the air which looked like pathetic fireworks hidden behind the screen of shadow and smoke. It was only because of the occasional parting of the mist that she could notice and identify these. They only happened when spells shattered for some reason, the condensed mana fracturing and splitting into spark-like shards.

Glimpses through gaps in the fog, and glimpses in the flashing that lit the fog. Alone, they hinted. Together, they formed images, a slideshow running on an ancient computer.

Whatever was happening inside, whatever forces were attacking them, they never stopped moving. Every projectile was aimed at a different location. Every explosion centred away from the last.

The momentary holes in the visual blockade gave her stills, screenshots of a barely registered scene. In one, two figures grappling with a third between them. Another, a figure swinging a colossal hunk of metal that could only be generously called a greatsword, the weapon obscuring their opponent. Yet another, the beginnings of a shield spell forming with a weapon glinting at the edge of sight.

Moira watched, and struggled to understand. She couldn’t work it out. Everything she saw indicated that the slaver forces were fighting at least three, maybe as many as six opponents. It seemed clear in the distance between targets, in the degree of chaos that had taken the interior of the dome.

Yet, she knew there was no way through this type of shield once it was raised, no way for a third party to find entry and strike. It was a very simplistic construct, and as such there were very simple weaknesses. A person or a battery powered these shields, and when the charge ran out, the shield would fall. Taking it down was a matter of either overloading the battery or striking the barrier with enough **** that the battery drained quickly.

She would know if that had happened, because she’d already be moving inside to find John.

Her second thought was an ambush, but there was no way that they had already been inside the area the dome covered without being noticed. It was not a large area, and just the quick look she’d taken on arrival told her that the space lacked any spaces to hide or even partially conceal a person. The slavers might be repulsive, but nothing indicated this group of middlemen were stupid or careless.

Silence still held the warriors outside the shield captive, a thick blanket of reverence that caught the tongue and held it still at the mere thought of speech. Seconds passed slowly, and the Order knights bore witness alongside the four gathered women.

Only as she continued watching did the pattern resolve itself in her mind’s eye. The timing of the attacks, and the positioning that the few remaining occasional projectiles were aimed at. The glimpses of combat she could actually see. This wasn’t a third **** on the field, a squad or strike unit, or even a handful of mercenary assassins.

If she wasn’t wrong… they were only fighting one person.

She refused to allow herself to fully consider the potential implications of her realisation.

Moira was almost grateful when people appeared at the other side of the barrier, emerging through the roiling smoke and shadow. None appeared directly in front of her, but several were a short distance away from where the four of them stood. Just on the space she could see of the shield’s curve, she counted seven people.

Some pounded at the translucent magic with their hands and fists, desperation and fear painted on their features. Others used their weapons as Moira had mere minutes ago, or threw their own spells or abilities at the barrier until they couldn’t anymore.

The desperation on their faces was horrifying, but it drowned out the quieter noises from deeper within the barrier, and that was almost a blessing. Even if she could still hear the screams that echoed one moment and were silenced the next.

That sliver of gratitude vanished in an instant, replaced by nausea before she could prepare herself, when one of the people was suddenly yanked backwards into the fog. Abject horror painted their face, and then they were gone.

This time, the clash was closer, easy to discern the sounds. The clash of steel striking steel. The one-sided yells of attack, followed by grunts or whimpers of pain. The panting breaths which almost drowned the low rumble of a feral animal. The trained analytical part of her mind studied the sound, trying to place its origin amidst the ranks of lycan-folk, Abyssal fauna, and sound imitation magics. It didn’t quite fit any of the supernatural sources she had studied.

A louder yelp of pain. A thud of a body hitting earth. An indecipherable babbling, desperation bleeding through the begging clear as day despite the incoherency. A sudden increase in the voice’s urgency and panic. A sharp gurgling stop-

The man’s corpse flew through the bank of smoke and shadow, striking the shield with a sickening crack, then sliding down the magical wall and falling to the dirt lifelessly. A long smear of blood was left on the magical construct, very slowly sliding down to meet the corpse below as the mana rejected the foreign thing clinging to its surface.

The words slipped Moira’s lips before she could catch them, “What foul monster is-”

“Don’t.” Velvet’s voice snapped through the air sharper than any blade Moira had held, leaving shock in its wake. Moira had never so much as heard the soft-spoken girl raise her voice.

It was Erica’s expression she saw first, though. The grim line of her lips, her eyebrows drawn tightly together, the visible tension in her jawline. The way her eyes warned Moira not to speak, and confirmed the one answer she’d been trying not to consider.

Moira turned back to the shield, and **** herself to watch.

Minutes passed. She lost track after ten.

There wasn’t a battle inside the shield’s dome anymore. There was… the hunter inside, and the victims that got torn away to fight. They went one by one, and each fight seemed to last longer, as if slowing down.

At some point, her father showed up. Erica went to talk to him when Moira showed no signs of moving. She couldn’t, not now. More knights took up position around the shield, and she could feel her father a step behind her. If she moved, he would comfort her, she knew.

She didn’t move.

Eventually, the last person went silent, and the only noise that filled the once peaceful garden barrier was the sound of a single person, breathing heavily, broken by the occasional hitch that only wounded fighters had. The fog receded slowly, eventually only remaining to obscure one spot, perhaps two dozen meters from where Moira stood.

The shield pulsed weakly. It flickered, then again. And it slowly died.

Moira made to step forwards, a soft gasp from behind accompanying her motion. Velvet moved faster, overtaking her, running at full pelt towards the cloud of mist.

The Warden followed silently, knowing what they were going to find.

The thick cocoon of shadow and smoke parted around Velvet without touching her, rippling across the remaining magic to dissolve and fade. By the time it cleared fully, Moira had caught up, and took in the aftermath.

John was on his knees. He was covered in blood, so much that mud clung to his skin instead of soft dirt. His body was covered in mana burns and wounds which seemed to gently pulse their flow of blood, begging the question of how much blood was his.

In front of him was a corpse. John’s gleaming axe was buried in its chest cavity, and her training told her that it would be difficult to pull out, the blade likely buried into the spine. The neck was visibly twisted, lolling against the ground at an unnatural angle. The gouges that dug through the shoulders were momentarily confusing, but a single glance to John’s brutalised fingers answered that question.

The earth he knelt in was soaked in blood, the grass dyed and torn to give way to a pit of mud. The only part of his figure that was clear was the tear tracks that struggled to cut through the thick coating of congealed blood and mud.

Velvet didn’t care how much filth coated John.

She had thrown herself into his arms without a second thought, and was holding him so tightly to her body that Moira couldn’t help but wonder how he wasn’t wincing in pain. She rocked slowly with him, never loosening her grip on him for a second.

John wept, Velvet comforted, and Moira hated how she had encouraged him to join them only a few hours before.

She wondered if she would ever be able to forgive herself for it.