She’s useless, he thought, panic rising. You can do this. Just think through things. Maybe it’s a riddle like before. How does singing work? We inhale...
An idea began to form, as fragile as the mist itself. Setting his jaw, Henry surged forward, plunging into the thick fog. But he didn’t fight it. Instead, he focused inward, on the steady rhythm of his breath, letting the wand in his grip mirror his inhale.
Together, they drew in the mist—not with fear, but with a hunger that reached past flesh and bone, rooted in something deeper. The wand responded, shivering to life, its primal need intertwining with his own, until they pulsed as one, breathing in the mist with an unbreakable focused, steady breath—feeling the wand in his hand respond, as though it, too, was inhaling with him. Together, they welcomed the mist, with a craving as vast as the void that drove them both forward.
The mist became a swirling vortex, twisting and writhing as it was pulled toward the wand. Red light pulsed along its surface as the mist evaporated in streaks of glowing crimson. Power surged through him, a wave of vitality that filled every part of him. For the first time since he’d gotten sick, Henry felt truly alive.
The wand shivered, answering his pull, as if a raw, primal need had awakened within it, matching his heartbeat. The hunger wasn’t just his—it was theirs, a shared breath and pulse, driving them to devour the mist with every inhale.
The Mawlings faltered, their forms flickering as the mist was siphoned away. They slowed, skeletal arms and limbs weakening, but they kept coming, their eyes dimming only slightly as they pressed forward.
One of them lunged for his arm, its bony fingers just grazing his skin. He ducked, twisting his wrist to swing the wand in a sweeping arc. The creature shrieked as the wand’s energy surged into it, and its form flickered again, half-transparent. But it recovered, lurching toward him, slower but no less deadly.
Another Mawling darted to his side, claws scraping his shoulder, tearing into his jacket. Henry felt a chill seep into the wound as he shoved the creature back with the wand. The red light flared, and the Mawling staggered, shrieking as it stumbled, but it did not fall.
Henry’s heart raced.
They’re weakened, not destroyed. He took a step back, holding the wand defensively. The creatures circled him, moving sluggishly now, their forms shifting and blurring, but still relentless.
A third Mawling, grinning through jagged teeth, lunged at him, its fingers stretched wide. Henry swung the wand with all his strength, and the creature reeled back, wisps of mist peeling away from its skin. It snarled, shaking as though struggling to keep its form. But still, it advanced.
Panting, Henry adjusted his stance, pulling the wand close to his chest. He funneled his energy into the wand, feeling its hunger intensify, like a bottomless pit within him. With a fierce cry, he thrust the wand toward the nearest Mawling, pushing harder, feeding more of the mist into it. The creature’s skeletal frame flickered and twisted, its limbs writhing as it let out a pained, wavering shriek. But it didn’t dissolve. Instead, it fell to one knee, weakened but still grasping, its outstretched claws reaching for him.
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Henry jumped back, gritting his teeth as two more Mawlings lunged from opposite sides. He ducked, feeling their icy fingers graze his shoulders. He swung the wand horizontally, catching one of them across the ribs. The wand flared, pulling another wave of mist from the creature. It staggered, wobbling on half-transparent legs, but remained standing, its hollow eyes narrowing as it prepared for another attack.
Sweat poured down his face, his breathing ragged as he watched the Mawlings close in, weakened but undeterred. Desperation surged through him. I can’t just weaken them—I have to finish them off.
With a steely resolve, he raised the wand high, pouring every ounce of focus he had into its core. The mist around them vibrated, drawn toward him, swirling in thicker waves as the wand absorbed it. The Mawlings trembled, their shapes flickering, their shrieks desperate and hoarse. Henry took another step forward, pressing the advantage, watching as they slowed, their limbs sluggish and unsteady.
One Mawling, now barely more than a ghostly outline, lunged weakly, clawed hands stretching for him. He met its advance with a thrust of the wand, and finally, it shattered into vapor, dissolving with a final, hollow wail.
The others hesitated, but Henry didn’t give them a chance to recover. He moved with grim determination, sweeping the wand in wide arcs as he advanced, draining them with every swing. One by one, the Mawlings faltered, their bodies flickering, writhing, until they dissolved into mist, their shrieks fading to silence.
When he finally lowered the wand, he stood alone in a wasteland of broken wood and rubble, surrounded by twisted remnants of once-bustling market stalls and beams that lay splintered across the cobblestones. A dense, sickening silence pressed down around him, punctuated only by the sporadic creaks of shifting debris and faint, pained whimpers. The mists had receded, but their ghostly imprint lingered, as if the air itself bore scars from their retreat.
Survivors began to emerge slowly, hesitant shadows moving from behind overturned carts and the charred husks of ruined doorways. Their eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto Henry with expressions twisted by awe, but more disturbingly, by raw fear. He saw it in every trembling gaze—the suspicion, the terror—as if they thought the wand in his hand might yet betray them, unleashing a fresh horror on an already broken world.
Henry’s grip on the wand slackened as he took in the devastation around him. The mists had taken so much more than he’d noticed during the frenzy of battle; bits of charred belongings were strewn across the street, limbs jutting from the shadows in awful testament to what had been lost. His breath came in a shudder, and he tasted the smoke and blood that lingered in the air, felt it sting his lungs.
A few steps away, a young girl looked up at him. Dirt streaked her face, her dress torn and bloodied, and in her eyes was a raw, unfiltered horror that seemed to sink into him, winding its way through his chest like cold iron. She clutched her torn dress tightly, the fabric twisted between her small fingers, her gaze as steady as it was filled with confusion—and a haunting fear, like she was staring at something monstrous.
He took a step back, his fingers going numb around the wand’s handle. He wanted to tell her he hadn’t meant for this, that he had tried to protect them, that it hadn’t been his fault.
That was when the first punch struck him, a hard fist colliding with his jaw and sending him to the ground.