Strikes of lightning split the sky and annihilated the earth. Thunder crashed violently. The ground shook as it resounded through the kingdom. The road erupted. Debris scattered away from the explosion with deadly force. Citizens jolted backwards, crashing against the walls of their shops and homes. Their bodies flew through the air like dolls being tossed between children; their limbs flailed before shattering when they landed forcefully on the ground. Blood seeped between the cracks in the stone, its sharp scent scarring the air as a reminder for the days ahead of the destruction that took place.

    The muddied boots of Librona's armored soldiers splashed across the cobbled road as they hurried to join the commotion in the town. Their battle cries were lost amidst the chaos of war thundering around them. Women and children scurried in every direction; their anguished screams and cries echoed and haunted the night. Deep voices barked orders only to be drowned in frantic desperation. Swords were drawn from their sheaths; the shwings of the steel threatened in unison. Their blades reflected the orange glow of a city in ruins. Unarmored citizens took up improvised weapons. Pitchforks, axes, and scythes paraded through the streets, gripped by calloused hands, eagerly joining the kingdom's army in the fight for their home.

    The witch clad in black – making her almost invisible in the night – stood erect in the center of the town. Her golden eyes pierced the darkness as the dust lifted from the explosion. Her pale face was cold and hard, her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed in an angry focus as she stood in the wake of her attack. Her dark hair was obscured to the darkness of the stormy night. Stray strands of wet hair blew across her pale face. The rain was like cold daggers against her cheeks. Her black dress clung to her small, delicate frame and wrapped around her legs with the wind. She raised her head as she looked over the cowering village and she lifted her arms above her, palms up towards the angry sky. A ball of fire grew from nothing above her, hovering just over her open palms. The flames flickered and danced, anxiously waiting to feed on the ruins of the village. The heat was warm and encouraging against her palms. The glow of the flames was bright against the hollowness of the dreary night. Her arms trembled as the ball grew rapidly, out of her control before exploding above her. The force threw her backwards, but she landed swiftly on her feet and pushed herself forward once more to continue her attack. She threw her arms in the air once more, thunder rumbling above, and she summoned the fire within her.

    The soldiers hesitated in their pursuit, their frightened eyes fixed on the magic she summoned. The witch took advantage of their hesitation and hurled the fireball at her opponents. Soldiers and citizens scattered in all directions. Those who were too slow found themselves face to face with their death as the ball exploded against the cobblestone road. The flames clung to the streets and rampaged through the village. Bodies lay motionless around the city, burned and scarred and barely recognizable. Women and children cried out to their husbands, brothers, and sons before scurrying away to find safety.

    The witch gawked at the sight of the marred and mangled bodies but sent another fireball loose with urgency. It exploded when it made contact with the burnt and battered road. Ash and debris flew into the homes and shops; their wooden frames split and shattered. Old, thatched roofs erupted into a hellish inferno. The fire engulfed the buildings within seconds. Screams escaped from the burning homes that no longer offered safety to its residents. Bodies stumbled through the black smoke, coughing and choking and reaching for one another. The witch hesitated, flinching as the screams of those trapped inside rose above the crackling flames and stampeding soldiers. Her wide eyes darted around the burning village until they settled on the kingdom's soldiers.

    The soldiers rushed towards her once more with swords in hand, their battle cries rising above the panicked city. The witch's frantic gaze remained as she feebly threw her arms into the air, attempting to summon another spell to throw at her attackers. Her face creased with fear, her palms empty as she threw her arms in the air above her. Her eyes bounded between the charging soldiers as she realized she had grown too weak to continue the fight. The magic she had grown accustomed to, flowing warmly through her body, was thin and cold. She was empty. She closed her eyes. A flash of light struck the town, temporarily blinding those within its walls. The soldiers shielded their eyes with their arms until the light subsided. When their world dimmed, they peeked between their arms to see that the woman with fire had vanished.

    Despite the disappearance of their enemy, the witch's threat loomed above the panicked village. The soldiers turned to the crumbling town. Defeated, they returned their swords to their sheaths.

    “It will be back,” the army's commander reminded his men. “We must remain on guard for when it returns and protect these people.”

    The soldiers nodded and murmured to one another. They hurried to the bodies of their comrades, checking for the pulses of any survivors. They comforted the citizens, aiding them in their search for lost loved ones, and taking away the bodies of those who had been subjected to the witch's power. The townspeople huddled together, their heads bowed as they consoled one another.

    The rain continued to fall as the citizens mourned their friends, their hair plastered to their wet faces. Soldiers came together, mounting their horses to report to their king, while others stayed behind, protecting what remained of the little town. The soldiers urged their horses forward, their hooves splashing in the puddles along the cobblestone road as they headed out of the city and to the castle. The soldiers in the city kept solemn watch through the night, praying that the witch would not return.

#

    The rising sun peeked over the distant mountain range, its purple summits just shadows against a yellow morning sky. A lush valley stretched away from the mountains, sparkling with the glitter of morning dew, and disappeared into a vast forest. Leaves of browns and greens tickled the waking sky. The old, decaying castle that belonged to the kingdom's enemy, Scarletta, sat quietly at the edge of the forest, under the looming shadows of the mountains. Black clouds stretched towards the mountain range, bringing with them the threat of a storm. Distant lightning flashed and cut through the sky.

    Scarletta stood over a wooden table, worn and beaten; it's nicks and dips held memories of struggled years as Scarletta anguished over each spell and potion she had created. Her vivid red locks fell swiftly across her face from their hold behind her ears as she mixed the colorful liquids. The glasses bubbled and steamed as each liquid was married to another. Red, green, and black smoke billowed over each vessel, filling the room with a scentless fog. The witch was still as her concoctions came to life, but her expression remained cold and still. She filled a pointed, sharp tool with the magical liquid and walked to the far corner of the room where a dark shadow huddled.

    Golden eyes split the shadow and scanned the room in fright. Scarletta knelt on the ground beside the young woman and inserted the syringe into her arm. The golden eyes winced slightly, but otherwise, were still. When the tool was empty, Scarletta rose and returned to the table to carefully rearrange the glasses.

    The young woman in the corner stood and stepped into the warm, yellow light that streamed through the dirty window behind her. Her dark hair framed her pale face and nearly blended in with her dark dress. The dress made her look remarkably plain, but her facial features were perfection, as if carefully sculpted by patient hands over many years. Her eyes – pained and sad – and brows were stunningly symmetrical, spaced evenly apart. Her brows arched neatly over her almond shaped eyes. They seemed to frame her small, straight nose just so, in the center of her face, just above her soft, pink lips. A sunken dimple emerged when her lips twisted to the side, but otherwise, her skin was smooth and ageless. Not a scar or imperfection marked her young, delicate, but rigged body.

    “Calliope.” Scarletta turned to the young woman, her wavy red hair twisting around her and caressing her frame. “You’re back to your normal self. Now, no more mishaps; I can’t keep saving your pathetic ass.”

    Calliope nodded without uttering a word, careful not to upset her master. She forced herself to stand tall and confident as Scarletta looked her over, but still her heart raced and her knees trembled under the witch's powerful glare.

    “You're welcome,” the witch said with a sneer.

    “Thank you.” Calliope's quiet voice shook as she spoke. “I will be better.”

    “I hope so,” Scarletta said, narrowing her eyes at her creation. “I put a lot of time and energy into you. I expect you to use yourself to your full potential. I'm not done with you yet, but I will throw you to the Nequam if you continue to fail me.”

    Calliope winced at the remark, stepping back slightly as if to catch herself from a fierce blow. Scarletta smiled, pleased with her reaction. She turned back to the table and continued to mix liquids. “Destroy every last village,” she said, her voice stern. “Don't come back until the job is finished. Then, we will go to Alryn; that's where King Sloan is. I will tear him limb from limb. Spare your power and strength. Don’t let me down.”

    Calliope nodded and without a word, she turned and let herself out of the dim room. The woman approached the nearby window and smiled as she gazed toward the distant town, marked by the heavy smoke that lingered from the earlier attack. Calliope was much stronger than Scarletta's other witches; her results showed in the ruins. Soon, the rest of the kingdom would look the way Talmond did. Scarletta would have the revenge she waited for. Librona would pay for what they did to her. The door behind her opened, bringing Scarletta out of her thought.

    “After all these years, Mallius,” Scarletta said, not turning to welcome her visitor. “After all these wasted witches; it's finally happening. I will have my revenge on that kingdom. They will know my true power, and they will regret the torture they had me endure.” She turned to the creature and smiled. Mallius returned her grin, his teeth rotted and stained, yet sharp and deadly. His black, hunched gargoyle form loomed in the doorway. His large, powerful body just barely fit in the doorway of the castle, despite its unusually large rooms to accommodate the creatures that Scarletta called her Nequam.

    “It's only a matter of time before Calliope finishes them off,” the Nequam said, his voice deep and harsh; angry, despite his sly and eager grin.

    “The spell is almost perfect,” Scarletta said, returning to the table. Among the bottled potions lay her notes, scattered and worn. “She's just the witch I need to complete this. The kingdom won't stand a chance. Pity to see her sacrificed, though. She truly is the best of my creations.”

    “Her death will be worth it,” Mallius said. “The kingdom will be yours. You won't have a need for tools like her.”

    “She is but a pawn in this war. And Librona is only the beginning. I will have my revenge on what this world has done.”

    Mallius dug his claws into the wooden floorboards; his black, leathery wings stretched out beside him, almost filling the width of the room.

    “Patience, Mallius,” Scarletta said, anticipating his excitement. She turned back to the window, imagining a barren and burnt kingdom, all finally hers. “Once Calliope returns, we will have our fun.”