I Don't Want to Get Complacent.

The day finally came when Piccaron got his assignment. He and Princess Anastasia’s group would be scouting one of Elmar’s outposts, the infiltration set for nightfall. That afternoon, Piccaron went to Anastasia and asked for a blade.
“Don’t you already have a sword?” She nodded toward the old, worn one at his hip.
“Using that one means I’ve decided the fight’s already bad enough that my life’s on the line. A small dagger will do fine.” Piccaron’s tone stayed light.
Anastasia handed him a small dagger without further comment.
“Perfect.”
That night, the mission began. Watching Piccaron slit throats and slip through the dark with such practiced ease left Anastasia genuinely unsettled — a flicker of an old suspicion resurfaced, that he might be some kind of spy planted among them. She stayed sharp, watching him as much as the enemy.
They came across a scroll that, when unrolled, showed nothing at all. Piccaron tossed it into the fire on reflex. The others opened their mouths to scold him for it — until the burning paper twisted into glowing letters, forming words in the flame itself.
“Looks genuine. This is how Elmar’s scrolls actually work.” Piccaron studied the burning script. Something about this was wrong — deeply wrong. The intel was real, unfiltered. Did Hennesy actually believe he was dead? Confident enough to let his guard down this far?
“This is Elmar’s supply route. A few of these positions are already confirmed.” Max leaned in to read.
They burned another scroll. Piccaron’s focus slipped for a moment, though he pulled it back together.
This pattern… he thought.
The way they’re trying to fold a kingdom in on itself — outside of the surprise factor at Impala, this is nearly identical. Are they studying Baum’s old methods? This strategy—
“One of the enemy’s main command posts has been located. Some ruins, not far from here. If we push tonight, we can reach it by tomorrow evening.” Max’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“What if we call it here for tonight? Doesn’t this feel like too much risk?” The moment Piccaron said it, a cluster of enemy mages — previously downed — surged back up and struck with lightning magic. Piccaron threw himself into the spell’s path without hesitation. Blood ran fresh from his nose again.
“There’s always a price for that ability of yours. This is dangerous, even for you.” Carmila’s voice carried real concern.
“Does that technique work on every kind of magic?” Edric asked.
“So far. Yes.” Piccaron’s answer was short.
“Princess, I think we should press on. Waiting only shrinks our window. The sooner we hit them, the better our odds.” Max’s argument came fast.
“Can we at least think this through? Something about this doesn’t sit right with me.” Piccaron pushed back.
“Same here. Better to bring more people with us.” Edric sided with him.
Three votes for pressing on, two against. The mission continued. They reached the ruins the following night. The moon hung unusually bright overhead, the air warm despite the hour. They moved through the wreckage — the enemy post already abandoned. They’d arrived too late.
“Damn it, they move fast.” Max’s frustration cut through the quiet. Then four figures stepped out from the shadows of the ruins.
“Hennesy…… You!!!!” Piccaron’s voice tore loose.
“Yo.” Hennesy’s greeting came easy, almost friendly.
Piccaron knew already — nothing good ever came wrapped this neatly. Hennesy’s cunning had a way of showing up exactly when things looked too calm.
“Oh? Running with the nobility now?” Hennesy’s eyes moved over the group. “Thought you hated their kind.”
Princess Anastasia and the others already had blades drawn, bracing for the fight. She hadn’t expected to run straight into the enemy’s commander this early into the mission.
“Hennesy… who’s behind you.” Piccaron’s voice was flat. “You couldn’t have pulled this off alone.”
“No wonder you caught his attention.” Hennesy’s smile didn’t waver.
The instant Edric and Max moved to cast, an invisible gust of wind slammed into both of them, throwing them back. Anastasia’s team fell back a step.
“Alright, Piccaron. Let’s see how far your luck actually stretches.” Hennesy raised his hand, and black lightning tore loose from it — wild, unstable, twisting into something that looked almost like a screaming figure caught mid-throe. He hurled it straight at Anastasia’s group. They tried to block it with their own magic and failed outright. Piccaron reached out with his ability and froze in shock — this lightning refused to be controlled the way ordinary spells did. He poured everything he had into it, barely managing to bend its path enough to spare Anastasia and the others.
“What just happened?” Anastasia’s voice was sharp with alarm.
“Piccaron. Magic parasite.” Hennesy said it almost fondly, and hurled a second bolt straight at him this time. Piccaron threw himself into holding it back like a man fighting for his last breath.
“Still standing, are you?” Hennesy’s smile deepened.
“Ancient magic older than even the great sorcerer herself, laced with poison to scramble my own injection — you’re a monster, Hennesy.” Piccaron’s scream tore raw from his throat, and then the lightning finally hit him full force. He went down hard, breath coming in broken gasps.
Anastasia froze at the sight — then something clicked into place in her mind. She clapped both hands together, and a wave of golden light swept the ruins. When Hennesy reached to summon another bolt, the lightning simply vanished from his grip, as if something had reached in and unraveled it entirely.
“Moon’s Drizzle? That technique can actually stop my magic too?” Hennesy studied her, something like genuine interest crossing his face.
What little consciousness Piccaron had left slipped away as he watched it happen. Anastasia’s technique wouldn’t hold long — she and the others used the window it bought them to run, as hard and as fast as they could.
“If I had his kind of luck, this whole region would already be mine without half the effort.” Hennesy watched them go, unbothered. “Ah, well.” He turned and vanished into the dark. He didn’t give chase.