Kayvaan’s sharp eyes caught it—she didn’t truly disappear. Instead, she moved with sucredible speed that it gave the illusion of teleportation. One moment, she stood still. The , she was behind an Eldar rahe sheer velocity of her movements blurred the liween stillness and motion.

  In a heartbeat, she raised a delicate hand and lightly tapped the ranger’s back with her fiip. That siouch was devastating. Her nail pierced through the ranger’s psychic armor, tore through his flesh, and revealed the ah. Blood sprayed from the wound, spttering across the ground. The witch’s red hair seemed to e alive, each strand turning razor-sharp. With a single sweep, her hair sshed through the rangers like bdes, carving their bodies apart. Limbs flew, blood arced through the air, and their formation crumbled in an instant.

  The witch’s movements were a dance of death. She ripped an arm off er, kicked the leg off another, a a trail of destru wherever she moved. Her expression, however, was unnervingly serene—almost holy.

  As time passed, the rangers fell one by oheir efforts futile against the red-haired witch’s power. Sydria made several desperate attempts to strike her down with her twin mirror swords, but every move was intercepted by Rosina’s executioner bde. The battlefield desded into chaos, and Sydria’s precision faltered. Her double-bded teique fell apart, leavitacks clumsy and uncoordinated.

  Kayvaan watched from the sidelines, his sharp eyes every detail. It ainfully clear—Sydria was doomed. She had lost her posure, desding into a freate where even her fidence was shattered. Her strikes cked ahreat, and with her colpse, so too did their ces of victory. Yet, their sacrifice bought Kayvaan little time.

  He sighed heavily and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a syrihe vial tained a bat stimunt—a dangerous tool of war. Iing it would grant him temporary bursts of strength and speed, dulling pain and sharpening focus. But the cost was steep. Stimunts wreaked havo the body, carried the risk of addi, and were a on reason why maerans, desperate to endure, ended up dishonorably discharged or eveed for stealing supplies.

  Kayvaan despised the stuff. Yet, here and now, it was his only option. Meanwhile, the witch’s almost done, and soon the rangers y scattered like broken dolls. All except Sydria, who gripping her swords weakly.

  The result were like a painting. It depicted a serene baly se bathed in the crimson hues of a setting sun. The seated figure seemed tranquil, sav bck tea as the light dyed the world in blood red. Yet, something was missing. The figure’s head was absent, leaving a hollow, hauntierpiece to the witch’s masterpiece. The red-haired witch regarded Sydria for a moment but then turned her gaze to Kayvaan, her crimson lips curling into a smile. "This one’s handsome," she purred. "The kind that turns heads at first sight. I’d hate to kill you, but my painting needs a finishing touch. Your head would be perfect."

  Kayvaan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You’ve got to be joking."

  The witch’s smile deepened. "Oh, don’t be so hasty to refuse. Think about it. You’re just a soldier—a pawo the battlefield to die for a crumbling empire and its decrepit emperor. What’s the point of such a sacrifice? Empires rimes colpse, and even your so-called God-Emperor decays in his throne. Your death here would be meaningless, fotten in time." Her voice softened, honeyed and persuasive. "But art? Art is eternal. If your head pletes my masterpiece, you’ll be immortalized. People will marvel at the beauty of it for millennia. Your name will echh eternity, tied to something far greater than yourself. Isn’t that a far better legacy?"

  Her words were like a venomous lulby, sweet aive. Sydria, standing nearby, seemed to falter. She took two shaky steps forward, her eyes gssy. "Art…" Sydria murmured, her voice distant. "What could be more meaningful than that? To die for art…"

  Raising her mirror bdes, she moved as if in a trance, preparing to sever her own head. At the st sed, Rosina struck. Her executioner bde swung with precision, knog Sydria’s swords from her hands. "Snap out of it!" Rosina’s voice cut through the haze like a whip. "Don’t let her words poison your mind. Remember who you are. Let your path guide your emotions—trol yourself!"

  Sydria stood frozen, blinking in fusion as the fog lifted. She g her fallen swords and then back at Rosina, her expression utterly bewildered. The red-haired witch tilted her head, amused. "Oh, how noble of you, Rosina. Always so loyal, always so stubborn."

  Kayvaan noticed something strange about Sydria’s dazed state. It had to be the witch’s words—her voice carried an unnatural charm, a power that seemed capable of bending minds. But why wasn’t he affected?

  Kayvaan found the witch’s voice pleasant enough, sure, but beyond that? Nothing. Her reasoning sounded like nonsense—so absurd it was almost ughable. As long as someone wasn’t a plete fool, they wouldn’t buy into it, right? Yet Sydria and the others fell under her spell, ready to end their lives at her suggestion.

  Meanwhile, Kayvaan, who was the witch’s first target, felt absolutely nothing. ‘Why?’ he wondered. Did he unknowingly carry some artifact or charm that protected him from mental attacks? He quickly dismissed the idea—it sounded like something out of a game. Still, the mystery him.

  To the red-haired witch, however, Kayvaan’s unfling demeanor meant something else entirely. She assumed he was locked in a deep internal struggle. She had entered such situations before. Strong-willed individuals ofteed at first, but their hesitation was just a sign that they were ripe for the taking. The challenge only made the process sweeter. A man who crumbled instantly was b, unworthy of her attention. But one who resisted? Ah, that made the game so much more exg.

  The witch leaned in. She carefully eled her psychiergy, letting it swirl around her words like an intoxig mist. Her expression softened, her voice dipped into a soothing, almost maternal tone. “Don’t fight it so much,” she coaxed, her crimson eyes gleaming. “I know you’re fused—torweeernal art and the life you ’t let go of. But why g so tightly? Let go. Once you surrender, all your doubts will disappear. You’ll feel peace, joy, and bee a part of somethiernal. s, only perfe.”

  Kayvaan stared at her bnkly, saying nothing. In truth, he was enjoying her wasted effort. The longer she talked, the more time he had to recover.

  “What’s wrong?” the witch asked, her tone growing sweeter. “Haven’t made up your mi? Why torment yourself like this? Liberation is right in front of you. The true gods will five your sihis struggle, and you’ll finally be free.” She licked her lips, her tone dripping with temptation. “Say what’s on your mind. Speak your truth—I’m here to listen.”

  Kayvaan watched her with growing amusement. She was clearly getting impatient, and that was good news. daemons might be strong, but their patieen ran thin. ‘No time left,’ Kayvaan thought. He slipped a stimunt syringe from his pocket, his fingers curling around it as he weighed his options.