Isolde’s pulse of green energy struck the imposter squarely in the chest. The Púca cried out—a sound that was jarringly inhuman, a mix of Rhys’s voice and something high-pitched and distorted. The magical assault ripped through its illusion; the familiar face of Rhys flickered violently, overlaid with glimpses of something monstrous. Sharp, black claws flashed into existence, eyes burned with a feral, cold light, and for a terrifying instant, Elara thought she saw coarse, dark fur ripple beneath the borrowed skin.
The creature recoiled, stumbling back, its form momentarily unstable. Elara gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth, the last vestiges of hope replaced by raw, soul-chilling horror. The love, the relief, the shared moments—all of it had been a lie, a cruel performance by the monster now flickering before her.
"Enough games, Trickster," Isolde snapped, her staff steady, her voice ringing with authority despite the tremor she felt deep inside. "Why this cruel charade? What is your connection to the Blight, to the shrine in the fen?"
The Púca steadied itself, the flickering lessening as it regained control, though the Rhys-facade now looked thin, stretched, unable to fully conceal the wrongness beneath. A chillingly amused smile spread across the borrowed lips. "Games?" it echoed, its voice still a disconcerting blend. "My dear Mage, this is the game! Such delicious despair here! Such fertile ground for… play." It gestured vaguely towards the fearful villagers cowering nearby. "This village, steeped in misery, listening to whispers on the wind… it called to me. The shrine amplifies it all beautifully, a perfect stage!" It offered no real explanation, only reveling in the chaos it had created.
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Elara, initially frozen by terror, felt a surge of hot anger eclipse her fear as she heard the creature's mocking tone. The image of the real Rhys flashed in her mind—his quiet courage, his gentle strength, the way he'd faced hardship without succumbing to cruelty. This… thing… was a vile mockery of him. Finding her voice, she shouted, "You lie! Rhys would never… he would never find joy in suffering! You're nothing but a shadow!"
The Púca turned its head slowly towards Elara, the amusement in its glowing eyes replaced by a flash of annoyance. Its game was being spoiled. "Ah, Elara," it crooned, its voice shifting, becoming a perfect mimicry of Rhys’s gentlest tone. "Don't listen to her. She's trying to confuse you. It's me, Elara. Don't you remember us? Don't let them take me away from you again…" It held out a hand, the illusion momentarily solidifying, pleading, trying to exploit her grief and sow doubt.
But the Púca's attention was divided. As it focused its manipulative energy on Elara, trying to recapture its pawn, it failed to notice Edmund moving silently from the edge of the crowd, positioning himself strategically as they had planned. Seeing the creature turn its back momentarily on Isolde to focus on Elara, Edmund seized the opening.
With a determined roar that startled the onlookers, he surged forward, his enchanted sword held high. The blade, still humming faintly with Isolde’s power, descended in a powerful arc, biting deep into the Púca’s shoulder.
The creature shrieked—a sound utterly inhuman, filled with pain and surprise. The impact shattered the last vestiges of its illusion. The borrowed face of Rhys dissolved completely, revealing the Púca's true form: a nightmarish creature of shifting shadow and substance, with elongated limbs ending in wicked claws, fur like matted darkness, and eyes burning with cold, malevolent Fae light. Enraged, dripping black ichor from its wound, the unmasked Púca whirled to face Edmund, its true, monstrous nature unleashed and ready to fight.
