Syrial advanced.
"Step back, Merial! Don't let it get close!"
The young woman retreated, her chest tight, feeling powerless. The Child of Silence charged with fury. Syrial positioned herself in front of her pupil and shouted:
"Ithar!"
The runes glinted in the air. In moments, they dispersed, forming an energy barrier in front of the elder. The shield absorbed the impact of the creature's charge, which had almost crushed her with its weight. The old mage could see the red eyes and the fury of the stone wolf. The beast rose against the barrier, forcing its body. But the shield held, preventing it from advancing. Syrial staggered. Using words of power inside the Dead Zone had a high cost. The absence of external magic forced the use of internal energy— and this was limited, linked to one's own essence.
Without hesitation, the elder activated the bracelet.
Seeing her mentor breathless and the bracelet pulsing, Merial understood the risk.
Sustaining a magical shield and still attacking would exact a high price. The use of magic within the Dead Zones required sacrifices. And she would not let Syrial bear it all alone. She might not have physical strength, but they said she possessed the most powerful mind ever seen among the Sylarei. That's why she chose amplification as her second rune, further strengthening her already impressive capacity.
Merial concentrated, searching through her memories of theoretical classes until she found the ideal word. In her mental space, time distorted. The external world seemed to decelerate. She activated the bracelet and concentrated all her reserves. A Word emerged: golden, imposing. The rune of the Air element.
As she pronounced "Aeranth," her mind expanded—not just touching the air, but breathing it, becoming part of it. The winds around seemed to sigh in response. Dry leaves rose in chaotic spirals, pulled by growing whirlwinds. An aureole of energy took shape above her head, its edges glowing like glass in motion, molding translucent blades that spun with lethal precision.
Each blade pulsed with her focus, her fear, her urgency.
Then, they fired—sharp as thought, silent as breath. The first impact tore the corrupted flesh of the creature. The second blade hit the bone plates, sending splinters into the air. The Child of Silence roared, though without sound. Each blow undid it in part, but did not extinguish its fury. It advanced, defying the storm, its claws digging into the ground as if they could resist the air itself.
Merial remained firm, though her legs faltered. Her temples throbbed. Her vision blurred. She was no longer conjuring magic—she was the magic.
The air around the monster began to bend, to yield. The thrust ceased to be a cut—it became compression. A mass of pressure, invisible but relentless, formed around the wolf. The atmosphere thickened like liquid steel. Its limbs contorted as if drowning on solid ground.
Syrial's eyes widened.
"No... she's forming a pressurization field," she whispered, horrified. Not here. Not inside a Zone... this will consume her.
Her hand moved instinctively to activate an emergency rune—but it was too late.
The air collapsed inward with a dull, deep thud—not a sound, but a force. The creature's body jerked violently, then froze mid-movement. It imploded in silence, the density of the field compressing bones, roots, and flesh into a single point. In the blink of an eye, it ceased to be wolf, ceased to be beast—it became something unnatural: a perfect sphere of compressed stone, blood, and flesh. Smooth. Shining. Silent.
Dead.
Merial gasped, falling to her knees as the winds around dissipated like shattered glass.
Her vision darkened. The runic energy in her bracelet glowed one last time, then went
out, leaving the stone opaque. She trembled, hands shaking, her mind reverberating
with the force she had just released—and the price it had demanded.
Syrial ran to her, kneeling beside her, her hand hovering over her back, hesitant. The elder's eyes burned with admiration... and fear.
"You channeled the storm, my little one," she murmured. "And almost broke yourself in the process."
Merial tried to respond, but no word came. Her magic was silent. Exhausted.
What remained of the battle—the black, twisted sphere—rolled once in the calm air and stopped. The grass around it had died instantly, reduced to ashes. The ground beneath it had sunk slightly, forming a perfect depression where the pressure had crushed the earth.
Even the mist seemed to hold its breath.
Syrial managed a smile, despite the blood on her lips. She looked at her pupil, who had saved her from total exhaustion. Using all her energy would have brought serious consequences, but thanks to the young woman, she had needed to consume just over 20% of her reserves. With rest and meditation, she would recover.
Fragments of the ritual, now shattered, were scattered throughout the site. The mist swallowed the clearing opened by the wind magic, as if wanting to hide the void that resided there. With trembling hands, Merial began to collect what she could. They needed to study the vestiges and discover the purpose of the ritual.
Suddenly, the entire clearing seemed to pulse with a latent energy: branches cracked, rocks moved, a distant echo reverberated under their feet. Merial knew that Dead Zones were not fixed. Only some became permanent, transforming into Forbidden Zones. The rest healed with time, reclaimed by the power of the Dome. And the death of the Child of Silence seemed to have liberated that area. But how? She looked at her mentor, still motionless, runes glowing on her skin.
Syrial finally moved, her countenance serious and restless.
"We are not alone," she murmured.
She sensed presences—shadows beyond the reach of the Dome. Under her leadership, they both descended the rocky trail, down the mountain, with racing hearts. Each step required effort against fatigue, but the urgency was greater than any pain. They needed to leave and report to the university.
Something was creating Dead Zones. And, by all indications, it was also forging the Children of Silence. But for what purpose?
Both sensed that what they had witnessed was merely the prelude to something much greater.