I, Gallin, wood mouse Arcanist, master of magics and wielder of truth, sent breath through my limbs. My fingers shone and hummed as I moved them through my stance. I felt the familiar quickening energy revive my increasingly tired body as I took in a full breath. Ribbons of light danced around me as I finished my cantrip. They flew along the knicker and bloody swords of my kinsmen, along their crested shields, along their furrowed brows.

They breathed out bellows and shouts. The ribbons multiplied until they became as a school of thousands of fish clambering over one another. The mighty wave leveled our foe. They are metallic and cruel, the gross amalgams of the Prophet. For every dozen we kill, they kill two dozen. For every Arcanist such as I, they have three. They cheered, happy to have killed their dozen. I exhaled, precious breath released. It was a gift of the Father. We need breath to live, the taking, shaping, and giving back of the invisible essence around us. A part of us given before our souls depart in death.

The cheering died and fear choked the air. Death had come and is now here. The Prophet with his sleek, silvery sword. He loomed, the darkness of his cloak offset by the moon’s reflection in the blade. Silence trailed behind him. I caught his eyes. Markedly average among the children of men. Not a hint of the malice that so characterized his deeds. No madness or horrid raving. He was purposed and set, as if the carnage of the battlefield was as natural as gravity. He moved along with it and was adeptly acclimated.

Losfulious the Brash charged forward. He shouted, spit and blood flying from his whiskers. The Prophet rounded his blade and cleanly stabbed the poor boy through his eye. The pure silver took with it the maroon ribbon of light escaping from Losfulious.

Furious, I breathed in deep. I charged my kinsmen to run. All obeyed. I traced my fingers quickly, exercising the practiced stances. He walked along, calm as a stone. I finished my stance and sent a concentrated dagger off light. He swung around it and returned to his position like a sunflower blown by a gentle breeze. I was already in another stance, preparing a shield.

The devil was upon me. I erected my shield and took in another deep breath. He sliced through my shield. It would hold long enough for me to complete my next stance. He sliced again. I traced across my body. Again. And I traced up to the sky. Again. I closed the stance. Again. My shield broke. The stance pushed me far away. I flew backward into the tree line.

As soon as I regained my footing, I started another stance to put up another shield. Not one trace of light completed before I heard the sound of sprinting. The Prophet swung and sliced off my arm. I fell back prone, having moved as quick as I could to avoid the fatal intent of that blade.

It rounded again, fatal intent renewed. His sword came down, and I saw the faces of my people in his blade. Their breaths caught the dark reflection. I rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding his attack. He swung again. I sent breath to cover my hand. As I grabbed the blade, I felt the breath eke from my fingers.

He sliced through my hand. I stared up at his static eyes. He looked at me and, without hesitation, stabbed downward into my lungs. I took in breath, knowing it may be my last, and covered the wound with it. It felt cold, as though clear ice punctured me. I yelled, staring down the devil. He took the blade out and stood looming over me. Then, he raised his blade slightly and stabbed down again. Before the blade made contact, I closed my eyes and felt the breath pulse around me.

Grass, trees, wind, sky: I saw them. They turned to me. I felt their breath pour into me. I opened my eyes again and breathed in. I shone with light. Ribbons of golden light erupted around me like a volcano. I felt the power of life, the gift of the Father, surge through my body. I breathed out.

The Prophet blocked his face with his blade and was dug his feet in the ground. It was to no avail. He was thrown far, far away. As for his metal amalgams, they fell dead to the ground. My kinsmen felt the warmth that was escaping my body flood into them, distracting the dying from their pain as they drifted to whence I head.

I fell to the ground. The breath escaped me. I knew what was happening. I had seen it many times before. I, Gallin, wood mouse Arcanist, master of magics and wielder of truth, was dying.