Dūrilī landed hard, letting out a pained "oof" as his hands and knees slammed into the floor but, with his years of martial training kicked in, he managed to keep his balance. He was on the move immediately, rolling to his side where he snatched his fallen sword up and, in one liquid motion bolting across the room mere microseconds before another blade of wind slammed into the space he had just left.

Despite the near miss though, Dūrilī pretty confident about his chances. His family had once been one of the proudest lineages of stonemages in the city, but like many other noble lines, their magic had slowly declined. He himself didn't have even a shred of magical talent, but his father, on the other hand, had been blessed with exceptional abilities. Most warriors hadn't had the advantage of training for decades against one of the most powerful mages in the city. This mage is as good as dead.

Moving with lightning quick speed, he zagged back and forth across the room, three blades of wind whishing mere inches away from his head as he closed the distance on his unknown assailant.

Still, despite his confidence in his victory, Dūrilī's mind was working overtime as he scrutinized his strange attacker. His mind drew a blank.

A petite woman with curly brown hair and angry eyes, and a skin tone far too pale for the level of power she was showing. She’s not a Djinn, he realized with shock. Nor an elf, he was guessing, based on her complete lack of antlers or pointy ears. His confusion only deepened; it was almost impossible to gain entrance to the Harei Miqlat without being a Djinn or an elf. Guess I’ll find out when I kill her.

He dodged one last time. She had picked up on his pattern, and thrown her spell exactly where she expected him to be. It was a good effort. It showed intelligence, an ability to adapt quickly. But he had more years of training.

Breaking his pattern, Dūrilī had hurled himself even further to the left. There was no more room left in his study, but that didn’t bother him. Launching himself in the air, his feet temporarily defied gravity as he raced on tiptoes across the bookshelves that lined the walls. Throwing himself forward, he aimed his sword straight at her neck. With a twitch of his thumb, he activated the small gem inserted in its hilt, and a ripple of electricity surged around the blade.

He had her dead to rights.

The edge of his sword was only a few inches away from her neck when the unexpected happened. A nearly circular sphere of wind exploded in place around his assailant, turning his sword to the side. Caught up in the howling gale, he was sent sailing, for the second time that day, across the room.

In a stroke of luck, Dūrilī landed on the plush, green velvet couch beneath his study window, and for one last time, the couch did its job, cushioning him so softly that he wasn't even injured. Of course, a moment later the couch was destroyed as a blade of wind sliced it in half, but by then the Djinn had already spun away, sprinting to his feet with an alacrity born of well-trained instincts rather than any conscious decision.

Suddenly onthe defensive again, Dūrilī danced across the floor like a ballerina, narrowly dodging the hail of spells that came his way, all the while watching as the unknown mage maintained the perpetual whirlwind rotating around her. His confidence was beginning to wane.

By all accounts, Dūrilī should have ended the fight already - few mages could have countered his strike in time. But even if they had survived, he would have expected most mages to be on their last legs by now. Mages were an all or nothing sort of fighter - they either won quickly with overwhelming power or they lost once they ran out of essence.

The petite woman had tossed out close to twenty spells, not to mention the shield that had to be draining her with every passing moment. She ought to be close to collapse - her essence thoroughly exhausted, her head spiking with the sort of excruciating pain he had seen his father suffer occasionally. But the mage showed no sign of slowing down. There was no hint of pain in her eyes as she continued to bombard him with her savage blades.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. He could clearly see the tall warrior standing beside her, leaning back against the shattered remains of the door as he watched the mage attack him. They weren’t even taking this fight seriously! She was toying with him.

Truly desperate now, Dūrilī decided it was time to pull out all the stops. Sure, he wasn’t the favorite son, but Lord Ilzaginnī had a reputation to protect; his heirs might not have been mages, but that didn’t stop them from using enchanted items, and Dūrilī had one very special item - a golden necklace with a large amber gem.

On his own, the Djinn could never have activated the soulsnare. It required a great deal of essence after all, but his father had spent good money paying an enchanter to jury rig a half-dozen infused crystals that could power up the necklace just as well as a mage. Spinning on his feet, he narrowly dodged another one of her spells as he fished the soul snare out of his bag. With a quick spasm of his fist, he crushed the gems into dust, releasing a flood of stored essence into the necklace.

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The massive burst of essence powered up the soul snare far more quickly than even most mages could manage. Almost immediately, the necklace began to glow like a star, banishing every shadow from the room. Its amber eye gleamed brighter than the rest, so bright that it was difficult to even look at. Then a beam of light exploded from the gem, lancing out with a single devastating strike aimed straight at her soul.

Time seemed to slow as the light erupted. Dūrilī saw the girl’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch, reveling in the fear reflected in them. He wasn’t generally the sadistic sort, but after all the trouble she had put him through, it was hard not to take a bit of pleasure in her final moment before retribution. Besides, it was her own fault. She was the one who had attacked him after all.

Her hands lifted in slow motion, essence pooling at the tip of her fingers as she tried to cast a spell, but he knew it didn’t matter. Nothing she could cast would make a difference; not even the shield still orbiting around her would be enough to stop the soulsnare’s spell. Maybe an archmage could do it, but not this slip of a girl.

But his triumph turned to ashes as an enormous black hand flickered to life in front of her. As tall and wide as a Seraph, the strange hand was as dark as the depths of night, almost as if it was made from the void itself. Lightning crackled along its fingers and, in an instant, all the color was drained from the world, leaving nothing but the darkness and the light.

The beam from the soul snare smashed into it and Dūrilī watched helplessly as the the light was wholly consumed by the darkness. One of the fingers flicked towards him, and though it did not make any contact with him, he cried out in pain as the soul snare he was holding in his hand exploded into. a dozen sharp shards. Clutching his hand in pain, he could have sworn felt a strange sense of satisfaction emanating from the hand before it dissolved back into the air, and color returned to the world.

Dūrilī was too confused to even form coherent thoughts. He stared dumbly at his assailant, overwhelmed by what he had seen, and she stared back mutely at him. For a moment there was an unwitting truce betwixt the two.

What the hell sort of spell was that? As his brain finally clicked back into gear, he suddenly realized she hadn’t cast the spell. Her hands were frozen in place, with the essence of whatever spell she had been trying to cast still burning at her fingertips. Another second passed before he realized it didn’t matter.

If that was the sort of protection she had, nothing he did was going to make a difference. Years of father’s drilling served him well at that moment. Seizing the brief moment of opportunity her shock had afforded him, the Djinn turned to flee. Maybe father can save me.

He made it three steps before the bolt took him in the back. It was the first head-on hit he’d taken in their brief clash, and for the third time that day he was sent flying. This time, though, his skin didn't bear the brunt of the blow so well. No longer cushioned by the heavy wooden door, his assassin's wind blade cut a gnarly gash deep into his back.

He bit back a whimper of pain, and tossed an amulet his father had given him behind him. He stumbled as the explosion buffeted his back, but kept running, not daring to look back. The window was only a few steps away. He wasn’t too thrilled about throwing himself out a window three floors up, but his chances of survival were still better than they were here. If he could just make it to the streets, surely the guards would notice.

One step. Two. His stomach lurched as he suddenly pitched forward. For some reason, his foot had failed to make contact with the floor. He slammed into the lacquered tiles, sliding across the shiny finish. The excruciating pain hit him a moment later.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push himself through it, to push himself up and limp the last few steps to the window, but his damned feet just wouldn’t cooperate. Glancing down frantically, he finally saw the reason. His legs had been sheared off just below the knee. A shadow loomed over him, and somehow, he found the strength to desperately lash out in a last-ditched attempt to save himself. The electricity on his blade flared to life again as he activated the crystal button, but his assailant deflected the strike with a wind blade of her own.

Snatching hold of his arm, she twisted it relentlessly until the sword dropped limply from his fingers.

“Hmmh, what an interesting weapon.” Through a haze of pain, Dūrilī watched as his killer picked up the sword and ran her finger along its edge. Rather than harming her, the electricity seemed to be suctioned up into her. A torrent of blue sparks arcing up her arm, slowly dulling the crystal powering it until I shattered.

“Oops, I guess I broke it.” Dropping the now worthless sword on the ground, the woman knelt down beside him. Essence blossomed on the edge of her fingers - another one of her windblades, he guessed - and she pressed her head against his neck. So this is it.

“I have a few questions for you, Dūrilī. Answer them, and I might let you live.” His mind was so deluged by pain, he could barely think. Every moment, his lifeblood was draining away, but he nodded frantically, hope blooming in the pit of his stomach. Would she really let him live?

“Anything," he managed to rasp out, and the ghost of a smile flickered across the girl’s face.

“Nēs̆u, if you will?” A moment later the warrior knelt beside him, pouring a potion across his severed legs. Dūrilī could tell immediately that the worst of the blood loss had been stemmed. The pain was slightly dulled too, enough to allow the thoughts to once again cascade into his mind. My legs. She took my bloody legs. He glanced around the room frantic for what he had lost. If I can get to a healer fast enough, they can reattach them. But the woman wasn't interested in his legs.

He reeled back as a light punch caught him on the cheek. "Hey, listen up. You can worry about your legs later."

Numbly, he glanced up at the small woman, and nodded his head feebly.

Smiling grimly, she started to speak again. “Now, tell me about a band of scouts who visited your establishment a few days ago…”