Rikive shot up to her feet when Parael curled in on himself as though he was in pain and started yelling at her. Something was happening, damn the heavenly realms! Someone was doing something to Parael's sword. Panic rushed through her, not sure what Parael meant by her needing to leave for her own safety. 

"What's wrong?" She asked him, grabbing onto his shoulders. "Nevermind my safety, you're the one under attack! Please, tell me what's happening Parael. What in the Nine worlds are they doing to you?" 

Why couldn't she have inherited better magical skills from her mother? If she had better developed magic, maybe she could have battled against whatever was happening to her friend. A human and a Light Elf have a halfling child and that mortal could wield magic and cast spells on par with their supernatural parent. They were some of the most powerful mages to walk the Earth.

Yet she was the offspring of a damned God and a Light Elf and the only magic she could cast was to heal bodily injuries. Even then there was a limit and it could be a drain on her. She had never felt so frustrated with her lack of magic until now, when her friend, someone she thought of as a brother, was clearly suffering in front of her and she couldn't do a thing to stop it. 

It brought forth the fresh memory of watching Parael die under her hands. She could almost feel the warm, slick substance of his blood on her hands again.

She caught herself before she tightened her grip on Parael and took in a deep breath. She may not have magic, but she did have her strength. She had Winterthorn. There was magic in that stubborn, dusty old blade, she knew there was. She was going to unlock it if it was the last thing she did.