The wind howled and thunder rumbled as dark clouds gathered overhead, forming a spiraling vortex in the sky. Hail and rain pelted down hard, making it difficult for Sir Francis to keep his gaze fixed on the witches hovering above.

With one hand gripping his sword and the other holding a shield in front of him, he braced himself for what was to come. Behind him, Sylvia used her magic to shield herself from the harsh weather, while the guardsmen, huddled together, stood defensively with their shields raised.

The situation looked dire. The storm's growing strength would surely restrict their movement, while the witches above had the advantage of height and mobility. Sir Francis knew they were at a severe disadvantage, but they had no choice but to stand their ground.

Without warning, one of the witches raised her hand, clutching a wand that glowed ominously. She pointed it toward the swirling sky, and in an instant, she brought it down, aiming it directly at Sir Francis and his group. The air crackled with electricity as a bolt of lightning shot down from the clouds, heading straight for them.

Unable to dodge, Sir Francis lifted his shield, preparing to take the hit head-on. He braced himself, eyes squeezed shut, expecting the worst. The deafening crack of thunder roared, but instead of feeling the searing pain, he heard the sound of the lightning being diverted.

When he opened his eyes, Sylvia stood in front of him, her wand extended, having conjured a magical barrier that had deflected the lightning just in time. The spell flickered and faded, but it had done its job. Sylvia's breath was heavy, but she held her ground. The witch above scowled, her face twisting in frustration.

The witches wasted no time, readying a second, more devastating attack. Sir Francis saw the danger immediately. Grabbing Sylvia by the arm, he pulled her toward him, shouting over the storm,

"TAKE COVER, NOW!"

His voice cut through the wind as he barked orders to the guardsmen.

Without hesitation, they all scrambled toward the nearest ruined structures, knowing they were sitting ducks out in the open. Sir Francis led Sylvia and a few of the guards behind the remains of a building, while others dashed to nearby shelter. Within seconds, a massive bolt of lightning struck the spot where they had stood just moments before. The ground sizzled with energy, and the air smelled of scorched earth.

A deafening crack followed as the lightning struck again, this time hitting the building where Sir Francis and Sylvia had taken cover. The uppermost part of the structure, made mostly of wood, exploded into splinters and debris, scattering around them. Sylvia let out a small yelp, shielding herself from the falling fragments with her arm, but the stone lower half of the building held strong, offering them just enough protection from the full force of the blast.

But Sir Francis knew they couldn't stay there much longer. The witches would keep attacking until they were exposed or overwhelmed. He glanced at Sylvia, her face tense but determined.

"This won't hold forever," he said grimly.

The witches' taunting echoed through the storm, their mocking laughter mixing with the thunder.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" one called out, her voice dripping with malice.

"You slipped away before, Sir Knight, but today... instead of turning you into a giant pile of turd, I'll vaporize you into dust!"

The witches cackled as lightning bolts struck the earth around them, their cruel amusement obvious.

Sir Francis clenched his jaw, his patience wearing thin.

"RATS", he muttered under his breath, the irritation clear in his voice.

Sylvia, crouched beside him, spoke quietly but urgently.

"They're after the Mother Crystal," she said.

"Of course they are," Sir Francis replied quickly, not taking his eyes off the skies. The witches were taking their time, hovering above them like birds of prey, but their deliberate slowness revealed one thing—they were toying with him.

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Sir Francis's grip tightened on his sword, his frustration rising. "Those wretched witches could strike us down at any moment, but instead, they're wasting time."

Before he could finish his thought, another bolt of lightning crashed down, striking dangerously close to their shelter, followed by another near the guardsmen. The witches laughed maniacally, their voices piercing through the storm.

Sir Francis turned to Sylvia. "Is there anything you can do to bring them down from the sky?"

Sylvia's eyes narrowed, her face full of concentration.

"I can cast a disruptor spell," she said confidently. "It can immobilize their brooms, but I can only target one witch at a time," she added.

As they spoke, more magic energy blasts erupted around them, sending debris flying through the air.

Sir Francis's mind raced, and then an idea hit him. "Right," he said, determination flashing in his eyes. "We'll distract them. You wait for an opening and target one of the witches. Bring her down, and when you do, I'll take her out with my blade."

Sylvia nodded, her focus sharpening on the task at hand. The storm raged around them, but now they had a plan—a slim chance to turn the tide.

Sir Francis charged forward, sword in hand, with a determined yell, "Onward!" The guardsmen sprang into action, following their captain's lead without hesitation. They knew that when Sir Francis had a plan, they could trust him to see it through, no matter the danger ahead. As they rushed out of their cover, the witches scattered above, each selecting a target.

The air crackled with energy as bolts of lightning rained down from the sky. Sir Francis ordered his men to take cover behind the ruins of the nearby buildings, knowing they needed to stay alive long enough for Sylvia to work her magic. The witches, however, were playing with them. They hovered above, laughing as they shot destructive blasts of energy, intentionally missing their targets by just enough to send the guardsmen flying without delivering a killing blow. The storm raged on, the witches' cruel amusement growing as they destroyed the remaining cover around Sir Francis and his men.

The witch in the center locked her eyes on Sir Francis. Her malicious grin widened as she prepared to strike. He saw her floating down, wand in hand, ready to unleash her power on him. Sir Francis dashed into the open, seemingly running straight toward her, taunting as he went, "Come get me!"

The witch, eager for her kill, dove toward him, confident in her superiority. She hovered dangerously close to the ground now, wand raised, a vicious sneer on her face as she prepared to strike Sir Francis down. The two were about to clash head-on, the witch fully committed to her attack. But in her focus on Sir Francis, she never noticed Sylvia sneaking through the abandoned buildings, her form hidden in the shadows.

Just as the witch readied her wand to unleash a fatal blow, Sylvia emerged from cover and cast her disruptor spell. A sudden spark of magic crackled through the air, and the witch's broom sputtered and froze mid-flight. Her smug expression vanished in an instant as her broom stopped floating and she plummeted. The momentum from her dive threw her forward, directly into Sir Francis's waiting blade.

With precise timing, Sir Francis swung his sword, aiming for her neck. Sir Francis's blade met its mark, and with one clean, swift motion, the witch head separated from her body.

Suddenly, a burst of magical energy erupted directly at Sir Francis, catching him off guard. The force was immense, hurling him through the air. He was blown back violently, his sword slipping from his hand, clattering to the ground far from his reach. He tumbled across the muddy terrain, rolling several times before finally coming to a stop, lying on his back. His body ached from the impact, and a groan escaped him as he struggled to regain his senses.

The rain pounded down mercilessly, mixing with the dirt beneath him, creating a sludgy mess. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, the cold seeping into his bones. Sylvia's voice cut through the chaos, shouting, "Sir Francis!" But before he could even respond, another magical blast from one of the witches targeted her. With no choice, Sylvia hastily conjured a defensive spell, casting a shimmering barrier to block the attack. Now, she had become the witch's main target, forced into a one-on-one duel.

Sir Francis, still disoriented from the earlier blast, tried to push himself up. But as he attempted to rise, he froze in horror. In front of him the witch whose head he had just severed was now standing with her hand pointed its wand directly at him, her body eerily still. Her head lay several feet away, eyes still gleaming with malice and then, as if mocking him, the head on the ground began to laugh—a high-pitched, sinister cackle that echoed through the storm.

"How?" Sir Francis muttered, disbelief spreading across his face. He was barely able to process the scene in front of him.

The witch's body slowly moved toward her severed head, bending down to retrieve it. Her movements were unnervingly calm, as if nothing had happened. She lifted her head, placing it back atop her neck, and in an instant, it reattached seamlessly. The witch blinked once, and her lips curled into a wicked grin.

The other witches, still circling above, laughed hysterically, their laughter blending with the sound of the storm. Even Sylvia, who was struggling to fend off her opponent's relentless attacks, had a moment of shock, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sight.

Sir Francis, still in pain and barely able to stand, watched helplessly as the witch now walked toward him. Her wand was raised, crackling with energy, her gaze locked on him with a predatory hunger. The storm raged around them, but in that moment, the air seemed to still.

"There's nowhere to run now," the witch said, her voice dripping with malice. She raised her wand higher, ready to strike.

"You're mine." She said.