Page 3 of Magic Undaunted

The retreat was quick but tense, every shadow seeming to pulse with unseen danger as they made their way back to their hidden base in the Whispering Woods. By the time they reached the outskirts of New Orleans, the sky was beginning to lighten, the faint glow of dawn touching the horizon.

The base, nestled on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, was a stark contrast to the eerie silence of the outpost. The Whispering Woods buzzed with life, the thick trees offering them both protection and secrecy. But Elyria’s mind was far from at ease.

Back in the central hall of their makeshift fortress, Elyria stood alone, staring at the flickering flames of the hearth. She still wondered how she had come to be the rebels’ leader—she who had dismissed their concerns and hunted them relentlessly. Her people now trusted her to keep them safe and to lead them against the High Council’s tyranny. But now she wasn’t sure if that was enough. The threat they faced was something she didn’t fully understand, and that frightened her.

"Elyria?"

She turned at the sound of Tavish’s voice, the sight of him bringing her a small measure of comfort. The master weapon maker was at his workbench, hammering out a new blade, the rhythmic clang of metal-on-metal steady and grounding. He was one of the few people she confided in, one of the few who had seen her at her worst and hadn’t judged her for it.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said, his eyes lifting from his work.

"Not a ghost," she muttered, pacing toward him. "Something worse."

Tavish set down the blade he’d been working on, his dark eyes narrowing in concern. "What happened?"

Elyria let out a long breath, rubbing the back of her neck as she explained what they’d found at the outpost—the cages, the symbol, the blood. By the time she finished, Tavish’s expression had darkened.

"This isn’t just about the High Council anymore," Elyria said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever this is, it’s bigger. More dangerous. And it’s coming for us."

Tavish nodded grimly. "I’ll start crafting something stronger. We’ll need better weapons if we’re going to face whatever this is head-on."

As Tavish turned back to his work, Elyria felt the pull of the danger of whatever lay ahead. This new threat would force her to confront the demons of her past and to face the very people who had banished her. This time, there would be no turning back.

Chapter

Two

STRYKER

Stryker Landry moved silently along the shimmering borders of Celestia, his keen senses attuned to the delicate hum of the fae realm’s magic. The ethereal glow of the twilight sky bathed everything in soft purples and blues, but something felt off tonight. The air itself seemed wrong—thicker, weighted. His griffon senses were on high alert, a subtle vibration thrumming in the ground beneath his feet.

He paused at the edge of the forest, the ancient trees standing like sentinels against the encroaching shadows. His gaze swept the horizon, sharp and focused. Nothing moved, but he could feel it—the pulse of danger, like a beast crouching just out of sight.

Then, a sound cut through the stillness. Ragged breathing. Feet scrambling over the mossy ground.

Stryker tensed, instinctively placing a hand on the hilt of his blade. Emerging from the shadows, a group of lesser fae burst into view, their faces pale with terror. Their wings fluttered erratically, some bent and torn as they stumbled toward him.

"Stryker!" one of them, a young fae with tear-streaked cheeks, called out, her voice unsteady. "Please—help us!"

His eyes narrowed. "What happened?" he demanded, his voice low, commanding.

The fae clustered around him, trembling, their eyes wide with fear. "Something... something is out there," one of them gasped, clutching a wound on his arm. "It attacked without warning. Dark magic—strong. None of us have ever felt anything like it."

Stryker’s jaw tightened. He glanced past them into the forest, where the air seemed to shimmer with an unnatural stillness. "Did you see who or what it was?"

They shook their heads. "No," another fae whispered. "But it was powerful... it felt like death."

Stryker’s gut twisted. Dark magic. Forbidden arts. His mind flashed to the ancient texts locked away in the High Council’s sealed archives—dark rituals, curses, and shadows that fed on life. Things no one in Celestia was supposed to know about, much less use, but there were whispered rumors that might no longer be true.

He shook his head. Fae were odd creatures. They all believed themselves to be above all others, and yet there was a distinctive caste system within the fae themselves. Very few non-fae were allowed to even know the precise location of Celestia, and fewer still to live among them. Stryker was one of the very few. He had skills that the fae, especially the High Council, found useful.

"Get to safety," he ordered nodding in the direction of the capitol, his tone brooking no argument. "Go to the nearest sanctuary and warn them. I’ll deal with whatever it is."

They hesitated, glancing at the dark woods, then back at Stryker. But they knew better than to question him. With murmurs of thanks, they hurried away, their wings barely lifting them as they fled into the gathering night.

Stryker drew his blade, the cool metal humming with the familiar power he commanded. His was not like the magic ofthe fae, but more the experience and strength gathered over a lifetime. He stalked into the woods, his senses sharp, and the tension in his body coiling tighter with every step. The further into the bayou he ventured, the more palpable the darkness became. It clung to the air like a suffocating fog, thick with malice.

And then he felt it—just beyond the tree line. The faint pulse of dark magic. He knelt, running his fingers across the earth. Cold. Dead. Whatever had touched this place had drained the life from it, leaving only decay behind.

---