The Lady of Illusion didn’t move at first.
She stood motionless beneath the twisted archway of her chamber, her violet form almost blending into the ambient glow of the walls around her. The air itself shimmered like heat rising off metal, distorting her silhouette as if she were a mirage. Her robes swayed without wind, drifting like tendrils of smoke in water. Her hands remained folded before her—delicate, serene, and yet deeply wrong.
"Careful," Inigo warned, aiming down his M4’s sights. "She’s not going to attack us the way that alpha did. This one plays with the mind."
"You think we’ve come this far just to fall for cheap parlor tricks?" Korrik snorted, tightening his grip on his blade.
Arienne didn’t answer. She was already preparing counter-wards, her magic thrumming against the foul currents of the room. "No," she said softly, "not parlor tricks. This is high-level illusion magic. Possibly divine-tier. My seals might not be enough."
"Then we hit her before she can cast," Korrik growled.
He took one step forward.
And the world... vanished.
Inigo’s sights suddenly showed nothing—no Lady of Illusion, no walls, no chamber, no team. Just a void of white light and drifting dust. He blinked rapidly. "What the hell?!"
"Inigo!" Lyra’s voice rang faintly in his ear, but it was distant, warped—like it was coming through water.
Then the scene changed again.
He stood on a battlefield. A real one. Earth, not this twisted biomechanical tower. His boots pressed into grassy soil littered with bullet casings. Smoke wafted from burning vehicles in the distance. Helicopters flew overhead. The air was hot with cordite and sweat and the metallic scent of blood.
"Where the fuck—" he murmured, spinning, weapon up.
And then he saw himself.
A mirror image of Inigo stood a few feet away—identical armor, gear, and weapon, down to the faint glowing sigil on his glove. But this Inigo had no soul in his eyes. Just the same violet glow that pulsed from the Lady’s illusions.
"Drop him!" Lyra shouted behind him—but Inigo wasn’t sure if it was real.
The bullets ripped into the doppelganger, tearing it apart in a spray of black smoke. It vanished into mist. The field crumbled beneath him like a dream collapsing, and Inigo gasped as he staggered back into reality, heart hammering.
The Lady still hadn’t moved.
But now Korrik and Arienne were gone.
Only Lyra remained visible.
"What just happened?!" she called out, knocking an arrow.
"She fragmented us," Inigo grunted, checking his ammo. "Hit our minds with illusions. She’s trying to disorient us before the real attack."
"Then where are the others?"
A sudden scream ripped through the air—Arienne’s voice, sharp and ragged like tearing silk.
He charged toward the sound, ignoring the shifting floor and cascading visions flashing around him. Shadows tried to grab him, voices called his name in friendly tones—lies, all lies. He broke through a wall of illusion like glass shattering—revealing a horror.
Korrik was pinned against a jagged pillar, chest impaled by a dozen crystal spears that floated midair like frozen lightning. Blood spilled from his mouth, his grip on his sword slack. Arienne stood in front of him, barely holding a shimmering shield of light with both hands, sweat pouring down her face, her lips moving rapidly as she chanted.
Beyond her floated the Lady, arms now raised, fingers flexed in a graceful, slow dance. Her face remained placid, almost mournful.
Inigo didn’t waste time. He raised the M4 and opened fire.
Rounds streaked toward the Lady—but mid-air, they twisted. Slowed. Turned into butterflies.
They evaporated before they could hit.
"She’s rewriting reality," Arienne gasped. "My magic’s barely anchoring us in place—she’s overriding everything!"
"I’m going to override her face," Korrik growled, somehow still alive. He lifted his sword in both hands, bloody but defiant.
"Korrik, no—!" Arienne cried.
But he leapt forward, driving his blade toward the Lady’s chest.
He never reached her.
She turned her head slightly. A faint ripple of violet light flicked from her eyes.
Korrik froze mid-air.
Not violently. Not loudly.
He simply unraveled—piece by piece, as if plucked apart by invisible hands. His armor, his bones, his flesh. Gone. Erased. Like he never existed.
Arienne fell to her knees with a sob.
Everything inside him wanted to scream, to collapse, but there was no time. The Lady turned to Arienne next, and the shields around her flickered like a dying flame.
"No you don’t," Inigo muttered, swapping mags. He activated his augmentation enchantment—his next twenty rounds infused with piercing force magic. He fired.
This time, some bullets struck true.
They ripped into the air around the Lady and detonated like shaped charges—one even glanced her shoulder, making her flinch.
Her illusion slipped—for just a moment.
That was all Arienne needed.
She threw out her final spell. A spear of pure anti-magic, forged of light and resistance.
It pierced the Lady’s midsection.
A shriek echoed through the chamber—not of pain, but fury.
Arienne slumped forward, eyes dimming. "That’s... all I have."
Inigo caught her as she fell. Her skin was pale. Her chest barely moved. There was no shield left. No magic humming. Her body was still.
His fingers curled into fists. Rage surged through his veins like fire, burning cold with fury he didn’t know he still had.
Lyra stepped into view, her face pale but determined. "It’s just us now."
Inigo nodded. "She’s not untouchable."
The Lady had recovered, but not fully. Her once-pristine image was fraying. Her movements were slower now. The illusions around her flickered like a dying flame. She was wounded, vulnerable—but still dangerously powerful.
"You bleed," Inigo muttered, raising his rifle again. "And that means you can die."
She floated higher, arms extending.
Dark runes spread through the air—massive sigils that warped gravity itself. Even the air began to ripple like boiling oil, the sheer magical density weighing down on their bones.
Inigo wasn’t sure how much longer they had.