Chapter 52: Hold the Line
The heavy doors slammed shut behind Noah, sealing off the corridor with a muted thud. Arcane locks clicked into place, glowing faintly before vanishing into the old stone.
Cordelia exhaled sharply through her nose. "Great," she muttered. "He gets to play the hero while I babysit the undead fan club."
The floor beneath her boots trembled. Distant murmurs of incantations echoed from deeper within the estate—low, guttural, ancient. Then came the scent of rot and magic, thick in the air like oil on water.
From the opposite side of the hallway, shadows stirred. Figures emerged—twenty of them—cloaked in deep gray and black, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks etched with flickering runes. Some held grimoires, others walked barehanded, their fingers twitching with malignant anticipation.
Cordelia planted her boots firmly and raised her right hand. A rune flared to life on her glove.
"Not today."
She slammed her hand down. A wall of fire burst to life across the hallway, roaring to existence in a sweeping arc. The wave of heat pushed back the fog, casting the necromancers in stark contrast—monsters silhouetted against the blaze.
Several of them stopped. Others began chanting louder, trying to dispel or push through the barrier. She could see their lips moving beneath the masks, their grimoires flipping open, pages rustling as mana surged.
Cordelia grinned.
’Let’s dance, then.’
She felt the pull of Wind magic, drawing it up through her chest. With a snap of her fingers, a slicing gust flew toward the closest necromancer who dared step through the flames. The gust caught his robe and tore it open, sending him stumbling back.