"You go ahead; I'll hold him off."
"Okay."
Just ahead of the girl, another figure, an elder armed with a short staff, was sprinting at a pace that defied his years. In that brief second of exchange, the older man beneath her had darted off without a backward glance towards the seemingly unreachable fortress filled with countless soldiers.
By all accounts, the girl had accomplished something a 150,000-strong army couldn't—she had penetrated deep into enemy territory alone. Yet Eleanor wasn’t nervous. Perhaps she felt she served some special purpose, or maybe she believed if they had wanted her dead, they wouldn't go through such an elaborate charade. Either way, Eleanor was squarely focused and curious about what awaited her.
As the two elders crossed paths, Spencer Raventa slowed, his breathing steady, nothing like someone who had just been sprinting.
He raised his staff, the gemstone at the tip glowed brilliantly. Accompanied by an incomprehensible incantation Eleanor’s heightened hearing picked up the last word: 'Soleil.'
The fireball at the end of the staff was just the size of a fist, yet the energy within was enough to make any high-level mage blush.
"Kid from the South, don't underestimate your Uncle Spencer," taunted the Duke of the North, laughing brazenly.
Spencer had the right to be cocky. Although as a combat mage and pragmatist with no systematic training in elemental magic, he was still a scholarly sort... well, old man. 'Soleil' was a high-level fire spell he had adapted from 'Daylight', learned from the notes of an aged elemental mage in his domain. He'd used his formidable control to compress the spell's area until it was just right. It sounded simple, but the risk of creating an impromptu sun-burst in your palm was no joke.
But with Spencer's talents, mastery came in just three weeks.
As Milton Erwin gazed at the miniature sun before him, he sighed in resignation. He was a step too slow.
His skills as a War Priest were secondary; his main worth was rooted in divine spells capable of casting army-wide buffs, making him more of a commander than a front-liner, unlike his counterparts, the war knights and battle mages.
Seeing Milton's reaction, Spencer's smile widened, "Go back and train some more, boy. You're not ready to spar with me. Go, get a few tips from your Duchess sister."
In response to such a humiliation, Milton's face revealed no anger, just a quirk of the lips, "At least I have a sister. And you, Uncle Spencer, where is yours now?"
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"You bast—!" Spencer raged, the tiny sun breaking free from his staff, hurtling toward Milton's head.
Spencer held nothing back with this strike.
In front of Milton, the floating holy book pages flapped to a certain passage without any breeze. His right hand hovered over the book, his left drew a holy symbol across his chest as he recited: "The Lord says: 'The impure and the unclean shall not harm the faithful by even a hair's breadth. Only by facing filth and blasphemy can one...'"
As he spoke, the ink from the scripture glowed gold. A translucent shield in the shape of the holy symbol materialized before him.
Shield after shield appeared just like the first, cascading behind it.
'Soleil' hit the first shield, scattering holy light and sparks in every direction. Only then did it become apparent just how fast the small sun was spinning, like a fiery drill bit. The first shield was breached swiftly, and the relentless invader punched through the second, then the third, and so on.
After breaking the ninth shield, 'Soleil', now decreased to thumb-size and redirected from Milton's head to his chest, encountered no more barriers.
"Bang!"
The seemingly insignificant fireball burst in front of Milton's chest, and when the smoke cleared, much of his matte white robe was gone, the undergarment beneath it still fiercely burning.
"Mr. Spencer Raventa," Milton's tone was icy, now using a formal address, "Everyone knows your sister died of natural causes. Isn't it ludicrous to wage a war over such a pretext?"
"I have nothing to discuss with a lapdog of the Church and the crown," Spencer fumed, hands balled into fists, "You have no right to speak of Alice."
"I have no interest in your sister," Milton brushed off a spark on his shoulder, "I just wanted to tell you she died serving the gods, which is an unequaled honor. You should be pleased."
"Pleased your Mum!" Spencer spat back sharply.
Unruffled by the maternal insult, Milton turned to fly back to his camp, "Just remember, having a hero doesn't mean you have it all. Barbarian, Uncle Spencer."
---
Not long after Eleanor had vanished, soldiers on both sides, weary from fighting like dogs, finally noticed their target was gone. Just at that moment, orders to retreat echoed from Carnwen Stronghold's battlements and the kingdom’s army. Leaving behind a carpet of the fallen, they returned to their camps.
Inside Carnwen Stronghold’s central mansion, Arwin and Spencer looked down at the ten-year-old girl, momentarily unsure of what to do. Two old men and one girl, observing one another in a silent standoff.
"Old man, do you remember how old the last hero was when he came to our world?" Spencer, his anger deflated, whispered to Arwin.
"About eight or nine years old, I believe," Arwin answered without turning, seeing no point in hiding this from the child before them.
"Then it seems we've got a genuine article..." Spencer murmured before falling into thought.
"Child, what's your name?" Arwin asked kindly, his tone softening as he unconsciously imagined his own granddaughter, Eschell, in the girl’s place.
"Eleanor," the girl answered earnestly.
"Illumination and a beacon—quite a fine name. What's your last name?"
"I don’t have one of those."
"Well then, where do you come from? Why were you on the battlefield?"
"I'm from Castelin City. Before...well, begging was my chief occupation..." She tried to sound more elegant but couldn't find the right way to sugarcoat her past.
Hearing her, the two elders exchanged awkward glances, "Castelin City? Ethan Walling?"