"Ms. Isa!" Edmund cried out, dropping his sword and rushing to Isolde's side as she crumpled beside the dissipating remains of the Púca. Her face was deathly pale, her breathing shallow. Elara, her own grief momentarily forgotten in the face of this new crisis, hurried over, kneeling beside Edmund. "What happened? Is she hurt?"

  Edmund gently checked Isolde for wounds, his movements quick but careful. He found no obvious injuries from the fight, only the alarming stillness and the faint, almost undetectable thrum of magic fading around her. He felt a surge of helplessness—his strength, his sword arm, were useless here. He knew nothing of diagnosing magical ailments or exhaustion. Elara, seeing his distress, offered what practical help she could. "Let's get her inside, to the inn. I can fetch water, clean cloths." Together, they carefully lifted Isolde and carried her away from the scene of the battle, leaving the stunned villagers to process their deliverance.

  Later, after settling Isolde into their room and ensuring she was stable, though still unconscious, Edmund found Elara standing alone near her cottage, staring numbly at the spot where the Púca had dissolved. He approached quietly. "Elara," he began softly, "I… we are sorry. For Rhys. The real Rhys. What that creature did… twisting your hope like that… it was monstrous." He hesitated, unsure what comfort he could offer. "It's alright to mourn him. Both the man you lost, and the hope you held onto." He saw the tears finally well up in her eyes, acknowledging the permission to grieve the complex loss. Giving her a respectful nod, he left her to her sorrow, the quiet beginning of her healing.

  Hours later, as dusk settled over Blackfen, Isolde stirred. Edmund was instantly at her side. Her eyes fluttered open, but they lacked their usual sharpness. She tried to sit up, wincing, a hand going to her temple. "The energy required… to bind it…" she murmured, her voice weak.

  "You overexerted yourself, Ms. Isa," Edmund said, relief warring with concern.

  Isolde shook her head slowly. "It's more than that." She pulled back the sleeve of her tunic, revealing faint, dark lines snaking up her arm from her wrist, like creeping shadows beneath her skin. Edmund hadn't noticed them clearly before. "These… they are a reminder," she said softly, her voice strained. "From when my order fell. I didn't escape unscathed."

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  She took a ragged breath. "The Blight… its corruption taints the Living Essence everywhere. Drawing on that tainted Essence always carries a risk, but pushing too hard, like I did against the Púca… it aggravates the damage already done. It stirs the echo of the Blight that scarred me then." She looked at Edmund, her expression grim. "I can still use magic, but not like before. Anything significant will worsen this… taint. It will consume me faster."

  The implication hung heavy in the air. Isolde, the powerful mage, carried a hidden wound, a vulnerability that could be lethally triggered by the very power she wielded. Edmund felt a new weight settle on his shoulders—the responsibility to protect her, not just as his partner, but as someone whose primary defense was now a confirmed danger to herself.

  Despite the confirmation of her aggravated vulnerability and the clear danger extensive magic use now posed, Isolde's resolve hadn't dimmed. "We can't stay here, Edmund," she said the next morning, her voice stronger but still lacking its full force. "The shrine, the entity the caretaker spoke of… this isn't over."

  Edmund nodded, his gaze steady. Her condition changed the dynamics of their partnership, demanding greater caution, but not their path. The knowledge of her specific limitation, rooted in the trauma of her past, only deepened his protective resolve. "I know. I'll watch your back, Ms. Isa. Always."

  They prepared to leave, their departure quieter than their arrival. They bid farewell to a subdued Elara, who offered them a sad but grateful smile, and received wary nods from the villagers who now understood the strange events that had plagued their home. Their journey forward would be different now, shadowed by the confirmed risks tied to Isolde's magic.

  As they passed through the village gates and turned onto the path leading away from Blackfen, Isolde paused, glancing back. At the edge of the fen, almost hidden by the gloom, stood a large, black dog-like shape. The Gwyllgi. It watched them silently, its ethereal white eyes seeming less malevolent now, almost… knowing. It dipped its head slightly, a gesture that felt impossibly like acknowledgment, before turning its gaze towards the village, towards Elara's cottage, for just a moment. Then, with a final, silent shimmer that might have whispered "Thank you," it faded back into the oppressive shadows of the Blighted Isles.

  And that's the end of Volume 1: "The Whispers of Blackfen Village"! If you've read this far, thank you so, so much. Seriously, journeying through the fens and facing down tricksters with Edmund and Isolde has been an adventure to write, and knowing people are reading along means the world.

  As this is still the beginning of their larger story (and my journey as a writer!), I would be incredibly grateful for any and all feedback, advice, or reviews you might have on this first arc. What worked? What didn't? What are your theories? Your thoughts genuinely help shape what comes next.

  I truly hope to continue chronicling the path of the Knight and the Mage through the Blighted Isles. There are many more ruins to explore and shadows to confront.

  Thank you again for reading.

  - Fuzz Grimly