5: The First Attack, Part 3

The punches kept coming, brutal and unyielding. Each impact crashed into him like a sledgehammer, rattling his bones and robbing him of breath. Henry’s cries turned hoarse, the sound of raw pain and desperation echoing through the square.

Henry tried to make out if it was the kid, but instead, a burly man’s fist slammed into his side, then his jaw, then deep into his stomach. The impact doubled him over, sending him sprawling into the dirt. A fist crashed into his side, and white spots danced before his eyes, each one flickering and fading like distant stars. Before he could draw a breath, another punch connected with his jaw, a metallic taste filling his mouth. His vision swam, darkness closing in at the edges as the relentless beating continued, each strike echoing through his body like a thunderous drum.

Pain flared in waves, sharp and relentless, each blow landing without mercy, stripping away whatever remnants of the mists’ strange protection remained. He could feel his ribs bruising, his organs pulsing with dull, aching thuds—a painful reminder that here, he was no savior, just flesh and bone. A thought clawed its way into his mind—if he survived this, if the mists didn’t take everything from him, there would still be scars, maybe more than skin deep.

With a shaky breath, he extended the wand, his fingers gripping it so tightly his knuckles whitened. He hoped they couldn’t see the slight tremor, the desperation hidden in his clenched jaw. His mind raced, conjuring anything, any command that might make it work, but the wand remained silent, as if mocking his weakness. He couldn’t really direct it to do anything—but they didn’t need to know that.

“Get back, I’ll use this on you. I swear it.”

Villagers hovered around him, their faces twisted with uncertainty and distrust. Their eyes flickered with a dark array of emotions: suspicion, fear, even outright hostility. Whispers rippled through the crowd, each word scraping against his nerves, accusations blending with murmurs of disgust.

"He’s a cursed sorcerer," someone spat, their voice laced with venom. "Brings the mists and expects us to bow to him?"

Henry lay sprawled on the ground, bruised and gasping, feeling the weight of their disdain pressing down like a second beating. The pain flared through him, each breath a struggle, his vision blurring as another kick landed, sharp and unrelenting. His wand clattered to the ground and disappeared.

Just as the man pulled back for another blow, a small, trembling voice rose above the jeers, cutting through the crowd’s contempt.

“He saved me, mister. Please… please stop.”

It was the little girl from before, stepping forward with a determined set to her shoulders despite the dirt and fear streaking her face. She held her torn dress in tiny fists, her knuckles white with tension, but her voice was steady, unwavering. Her gaze locked onto his, the only flicker of hope in a sea of doubt.

The man’s fist halted mid-air, anger flickering as he looked down at her. For a moment, his rage hesitated, like a storm pausing before the next gust. Henry, barely able to breathe, managed to lift himself onto his elbows, squinting through a haze of pain. The girl’s figure blurred, but he could see her standing tall, a fragile shield between him and the blows.

And then, as if destiny had ordained it, a celestial shimmer split the shadows, casting radiant light upon the earth below. Wings—magnificent, shimmering with the ethereal hues of twilight and dawn, as if crafted from the dreams of stars—unfurled in glorious splendor. A heavenly harp melody drifted through the air, each note a silken thread weaving the moment into a tapestry of divine grace. Every eye was helplessly drawn upward, captivated, as Elara descended with all the grace of an exalted queen. Her hands rested confidently on her hips, and a smirk of playful superiority adorned her face, as though she were the gift these mortals had long awaited.

"Oh, Henry," she sighed, her lips curling into a mischievous grin that somehow defied the thick tension hanging in the air. "Making friends already?"

A ripple of gasps and murmurs swelled through the crowd, eyes widening as they took in her appearance—a creature straight from legend, hovering above them like a vision. Awe spread across their faces; reverence and wonder softened their hard gazes.

A young boy, his face aglow with subtle lines of red, tugged at his father’s sleeve, eyes wide with wonder. "Pa, look! She’s got colors on her wings… like real magic!"

The father chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at the spectacle above them. "Aye, son, that’s true magic right there! Just like the old stories," he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. "We’re lucky to witness it, lad. Not everyone gets to see such beauty with their own eyes."

Elara drifted lower, her wings shimmering like a rainbow spun from moonlight, her gaze sweeping over the villagers as if they were an amusing audience. She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with exaggerated surprise as she took in Henry’s crumpled form.

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“Oh my sparkles and stars, just look at all of you!” She giggled, spinning mid-air in a delighted twirl as she surveyed the crowd. "Gathered here like moths to a flame, staring up at me as if I’ve dropped straight from a dream. And you—" she spun again, sweeping her gaze over the crowd with theatrical flair, "—you sweet, clueless sunflowers, thinking I’m the one to save you?”

Gasps rippled through the crowd, a blend of shock and wonder. An older woman clasped her hands, practically trembling as she stammered, “Are… are you here to save us? A true spirit of light…”

At this, Elara burst into laughter, the sound like tinkling glass.

“Save you?” She floated in a slow, lazy circle, as though savoring the taste of the word. “Ohhh, now that is something of a bore, isn’t it?”

With a thoughtful tap on her chin, she glanced down at Henry, who managed a weak groan.

“No, no,” she continued, her grin widening, “I’m more of the show-up-in-spectacular-fashion-and-maybe-spark-a-revolution-or-two type.”

The villagers continued to murmur, voices hushed yet tinged with wonder. The wide-eyed boy stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Elara as though she were some celestial being. “She must be a goddess…” he whispered, almost reverent.

Elara clapped her hands together in delight, her laughter chiming like bells. “Oh, keep it coming! You’re like a choir of candy-coated sparrows.” She gestured dramatically at Henry, who managed to lift his head, his face bruised and weary. “Do you see him? The one squished like a pumpkin under a cart?” She pointed, her tone somehow playful and exasperated all at once. “He’s the one you ought to be bowing to! He’s been doing all the hard work.”

Her gaze drifted lazily to the burly man, still looming over Henry with fists clenched. She tilted her head, her expression transforming into one of amused surprise, as if this scene of brute force were somehow the most entertaining twist of her day.

“Really,” she said with a gentle, mocking reprimand, her tone sweet as honey, “I’d have thought you’d be thanking him—not… whatever this is.” She waved a delicate hand toward Henry’s bruised and battered form, fluttering her fingers like she was brushing away crumbs.

The villagers glanced between Elara and Henry, a mix of embarrassment and awe on their faces. Their attention flickered to him briefly, before sliding back to Elara, too dazzled to truly process the sight of their so-called savior.

Elara arched an eyebrow, casting a sideways look at Henry with a smirk that bordered on wicked.

“You really are missing all the fun down here, Henrykins. They think I’m here to save the day.” She rolled her eyes, feigning exasperation. “And you? Just look at yourself, sprawled out like a heap of heroism! If only you could see your face—utterly tragic, darling!”

Henry tried to answer, but the words emerged as a broken croak. Elara leaned down, cupping a hand theatrically to her ear.

“What’s that, dear? ‘Yes, Elara, you’re too fabulous for this village’? Why, thank you! Oh, don’t stop now—oh, wait… you can’t.”

Henry’s vision swam, his head pounding, and Elara gave him a playful wink before pirouetting in the air above him, her wings scattering the last dappled rays of light.

“Rest up, my valiant little pumpkin,” she cooed, casting an enchanting glow over the crowd.

Then, with a sudden burst of speed, she zipped forward, stopping just inches from the burly man who had inflicted most of the damage. His bluster evaporated as he faced her steady, mischievous gaze, the fiery defiance in his eyes rapidly cooling. He gulped, glancing around for support, but found only the wide-eyed stares of his fellow villagers, their attention glued to Elara.

“S-sorry!” he stammered before turning on his heel and darting into the nearest crumbling building, his courage all but abandoned.

“She’s a sign,” someone whispered with reverence. “A sign that good things are coming.”

The first woman who’d spoken clasped her hands tighter, her face alight with renewed awe.

“Please, blessed one,” she called, her voice trembling with hope. “Are you here to save us?”

Elara’s lips curled, her eyes glinting with mirth. She dipped her head in a slow, graceful nod, but then cast a quick glance down at Henry, her voice soft enough for only him to hear.

“I suppose you could say that's what we are here to do… though don’t get too comfortable, Henry. There’s still work to be done.”

With effort, Henry managed to stagger to his feet, his legs quivering under the strain.

“Yeah…” Henry croaked, forcing himself to respond. “We need to… figure out where the mists went. Stop them.” Each word felt heavy, his chest aching with the effort, and his battered body screamed for rest, every bruise and scrape flaring in pain.

Unconcerned—or perhaps willfully indifferent to his exhaustion—Elara drifted above him, humming a soft tune as she glided over the debris. Now and then, she stooped to pluck a broken shard of wood, a spoon, or a charred stone, inspecting it as if the ruins themselves held some delightful secret, then letting each piece slip from her fingers like forgotten trinkets. Except the spoons. Those disappeared with a wink of magic. Henry slowly moved forward, his feet unsteady, and he was unsure where exactly to go. He needed sleep; maybe he could find an inn.

The villagers parted, eyes darting between him and Elara, but he was too dazed to notice. His vision grew foggy, the edges darkening as he stumbled forward. The world spun, his strength finally spent, and he crumpled to the ground as darkness claimed him.