The crimson eye of the Sky Citadel’s security grid pulsed like a malevolent heartbeat as Bogran ripped open a chaotic vortex in the wall of the storage room. Outside, the storm-lashed night of New Firenze offered them freedom–or at least, that was the plan. Anya, her face pale but resolute, mirrored his grin, their hands clasped tight. They launched themselves into the maw of the portal, adrenaline a potent elixir against the looming threat of oblivion.

  But the crimson eye didn't blink. It locked onto them, its unblinking gaze tracing their trajectory with malevolent intent. A searing beam of incinerating energy erupted from its depths, lancing towards them like a divine spear. Bogran reacted instinctively, conjuring a shimmering shield of protective magic around them. Anya, channeling her blood magic into the weave, amplified its resilience, fortifying it against the scorching assault.

  For a heartbeat, they were shielded. Then, with a sickening crackle, the shield began to fracture, tendrils of flame licking at its edges like ravenous serpents. Bogran felt the heat sear his skin even through the protective barrier. Time seemed to slow as the crimson beam bore down upon them, relentless and unforgiving. In that crucible of impending annihilation, their eyes met–a shared understanding, a silent farewell, and an unspoken love blooming amidst the inferno. They kissed, a desperate act of defiance against the encroaching darkness.

  Before their dripping snot broke the romance of the moment, the shield shattered in a shower of incandescent sparks. The skybeam consumed them, a searing white light swallowing their forms whole. Bogran felt no pain, only a sudden, overwhelming emptiness as his consciousness was ripped from the loop, leaving behind nothing but ashes and the lingering scent of ozone.

  He awoke with a jolt, sprawled on the cobblestones outside New Firenze's grand gates. Elglin materialized beside him, his usual ethereal smirk plastered across his face. Like a marionette, he repeated the same cryptic warning, in the same words, as the prior loop.

  Bogran felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. The memory of the incinerating kiss with Anya burned bright, even as his snot-stuffed sinuses protested the strain of another time loop. "Looks like my mysterious co-looper either only rode this last one," Bogran thought, "or they're playing a repetitive game of 'Bogran gets roasted, Bogran repeats.' But this loop will be different." He grinned, baring teeth stained green from days of questionable sustenance and potent magic.

  Before Elglin could fade away with his cryptic pronouncements, Bogran acted. In a blink, he teleported behind the impish entity, clamping a headlock on his shimmering form. Elglin sputtered in surprise, his ethereal features contorting in mock horror. "Now, Elglin," Bogran growled, knuckles poised against the back of Elglin's head, "who sent you? Spill it, or be noogied."

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  Elglin, surprisingly, remained stoic. "I felt a nudge, source unknown," he stated flatly. "A golden light brushed my mind, but its origin remains elusive."

  Bogran tried to trace the ghostly touch, peering into Elglin's mind with scrying magic channeled through his silver ring. All he saw was a fleeting glimmer of untraceable golden light, gone as quickly as it appeared. Frustration gnawed at him. "How do I find the Trashborn?" he demanded, still gripping Elglin in his vise-like headlock.

  Elglin shrugged. "Alas, I know not. Farewell, Bogran." With a pop and a shimmer, he teleported out from Bogran's grasp into the crowd, then melted away.

  Bogran muttered curses under his breath. He turned towards the alleyways, the familiar scent of decay and desperation drawing him in. As expected, two assassins materialized from the shadows, repeating their lines with robotic precision, their movements mirroring those of previous loops.

  Bogran dispatched the first with his usual ease. The second repeated his words of bravado. "You'll be another casualty in the Grand Game," the assassin finished defiantly.

  Bogran, however, wasn't having it this time. He met the assassin's words with a blast of concussive magic, sending him sprawling backward. Stepping on his chest, Bogran leaned down, his nostrils flaring with anger and boogers. "The Grand Game? Tell me, who are the players?"

  "I... I will tell nothing!" the assassin choked out, struggling beneath Bogran's weight. Bogran responded with a well-aimed glob of snot, landing directly on the assassin's face. As the viscous discharge dripped into his mouth, a whimper escaped the man's lips.

  "Mercy! I'll speak!" he begged. "The Celestial Shepherd...the Groundborn..." He rattled off names and factions, revealing a web of power struggles within New Firenze. Bogran cut off the first with a gruff, "Know him. Next!" and the rest with "Don't care. Next!"

  "...And the Trashborn," the assassin continued, breathlessly detailing the four main factions – North, South, East, and West. Bogran pressed for names, addresses, anything concrete. The assassin complied, his fear overcoming his pride. Finally, Bogran demanded directions to the nearest Trashborn stronghold. "What am I, a map?" the assassin retorted, but before Bogran could unleash another snot projectile, he relented. "Turn left at the rusted water spout, then three blocks down..." He rattled off detailed instructions, eager to be released from Bogran's bizarre interrogation.

  With a final, dismissive grunt, Bogran let him go. The assassin scrambled away, muttering a desperate prayer never to cross paths with this eccentric wizard again. Bogran followed the directions, navigating through a labyrinth of back alleys until he reached a dilapidated warehouse shrouded in darkness. A horde of feral-looking street urchins, armed with scavenged weaponry, guarded its entrance.

  "Tell your leader I wish to speak," Bogran declared, his voice echoing in the oppressive silence. He steeled himself for whatever awaited within, knowing this loop held new dangers and unexpected alliances. The fate of Anya, and perhaps New Firenze itself, hung in the balance, all while a relentless pressure built behind his eyes, threatening to unleash a symphony of snotty destruction.