The creature that stood where Rhys had been moments before was a nightmare given form. Its body was a shifting mass of shadow and knotted, fur-like darkness, limbs too long and ending in wickedly sharp claws dripping black ichor from the wound Edmund’s sword had inflicted. Eyes like chips of burning ice glared with cold, Fae malevolence. A guttural snarl ripped through the air, a sound of pure rage and pain that sent the nearby villagers scrambling back in terror.
Edmund planted himself firmly between the monster and the horrified Elara, his enchanted sword held steady despite the adrenaline pounding in his veins. Behind him, Isolde gathered her power, the air crackling faintly around her staff as she prepared more potent spells.
With inhuman speed, the Púca lunged. Edmund met the attack, his enchanted blade clashing against shadowy claws with a shriek of stressed metal. The creature was unnaturally strong and fast, its movements fluid and unpredictable. It dissolved into shadow only to reform moments later, striking from unexpected angles. Illusions flickered around the battlefield—phantom duplicates of the Púca, disorienting flashes of light, the terrain itself seeming to writhe and shift.
Edmund fought with grim determination, relying on instinct and the faint hum of power from his blade to cut through the deceptions. Isolde acted as his anchor, her voice chanting sharp syllables as she unleashed bolts of binding energy that briefly hampered the Púca's movements or sent arcs of protective light shimmering around Edmund. She targeted the illusions, trying to dispel them and keep the battlefield clear, but the Púca’s magic was slippery, ancient, and fueled by the corrupted energy of the nearby fen.
Seeing its direct attacks thwarted, the Púca shifted tactics. It focused its burning gaze on Elara. "Elara… help me…" it rasped, its voice momentarily twisting back into Rhys's familiar tone, laced with pain. It feigned weakness, stumbling, trying to exploit her lingering connection.
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But Elara, though trembling, stood her ground. The memory of the real Rhys—his quiet strength, his selflessness—burned brightly in her mind. "No!" she cried out, her voice surprisingly strong. "You are not him! You are a monster!" Seeing a discarded blacksmith's hammer nearby, she snatched it up. It wasn't much, but it was something. Her defiance seemed to momentarily startle the Púca, breaking its concentration.
That brief hesitation was all Edmund and Isolde needed. As the Púca turned its attention back to Elara, angered by her resistance, Isolde unleashed her strongest spell. A web of pure green energy erupted from her staff, wrapping around the Púca, searing its shadowy form and momentarily binding its limbs.
"Now, Edmund!" she cried, straining.
Edmund didn’t need telling twice. With a final, determined shout, he lunged forward, pouring all his strength into one decisive strike. His enchanted sword plunged deep into the Púca’s chest.
The creature let out one last, ear-splitting shriek that echoed through the village, its form flickering violently before dissolving entirely into a cloud of dissipating black smoke and foul-smelling ichor, leaving nothing behind but silence and the lingering smell of ozone and decay.
Panting, Edmund lowered his sword, watching the last wisps of darkness fade. Elara let out a choked sob, dropping the hammer, relief and grief washing over her. The villagers slowly emerged from their hiding places, staring in awe and fear at the spot where the monster had been. Blackfen was safe, at least from the Púca's deception.
Edmund turned, a weary but triumphant smile touching his lips as he met Isolde's gaze. They had done it.
Suddenly, to Edmund's horror, Isolde's eyes rolled back, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
