Behind Drust, Elayra clenched her teeth and hopped to her feet as quickly as she could. Another wispy flash lit their forms for little more than a second.
	Drust sneered at the dark shape of Ghent lying prone on the ground. “Imprudent, fickle weakling.” He readjusted the saber in his hand.
	 Elayra took a quiet step toward him and crouched. Drust raised the saber, ready to bring it down on Ghent as the boy sat up, gasping.
	She sprung at his dark, imposing form. She locked her legs around his torso and hooked her elbow around his neck. Ignoring the ache in her shoulder, she reached over and grasped his arm as close to the saber as she dared, derailing the strike before it could begin.
	She felt the muscles beneath his shirt tense. He let out a crazed, snarling shout as he stumbled back from her sudden, unexpected weight.	
	He quickly recovered and gripped her wrist. He pried it from his throat. Keeping ahold of it, he twisted his weapon-wielding arm to try shaking her off. Elayra tightened her leg hold and struggled to not release his other arm.
	“Come [i]on[/i], Dr—!”
	Her hissed words cut off as he leapt backwards, slamming her into a tree. She gave a shocked gasp. Her hold slackened, and she slipped from him. She sunk to the ground with a moan, incapable of telling if the darkness around her came from lurking unconsciousness, or the depths of the forest’s night.
	Freed of Elayra’s weight, Drust spun wildly to face her.
	[b]“DRUST!”[/b]
	With an aggravated snort, he glanced over his shoulder at Ghent. Deeming Elayra the lesser problem for now, he turned fully when Ghent stood. He glanced to the discarded dagger, the action lost to the darkness between phantom lights.
	Drust snorted at Ghent’s less-than-promising start. He stepped forward as the boy glanced away. He held Elayra’s sword at the ready. Its blue blade glinted in another ghostly flash.
	Though Ghent’s words bled together in a rush, Drust hesitated. His neck twitched. The motion radiated down his arm, and his grip tightened on the saber’s hilt. 
	When the boy finished, Drust stared at Ghent. The second stretched into an eternity. The darkness hid his eyes. The phantom flashes provided scarcely enough light to make out more than a guessing glimpse of the pulsating lines snaking from the corners of his eyes.
	His lips pulled back into a snarl. “Adorable notion.” He raised the sword and stepped to lunge at Ghent.
	A flash of crackling silver and blue whizzed between them. The phantom lights cowered away, fleeing like frightened pixies. Unlike the flashes, its light shone brighter and a bouncing train of electric mist trailed behind the newest spirit.
	With a surprised shout, Drust startled back as the streak twirled in a quick funnel mid-air, then rushed back toward him. 
	Snarling, he bent, bracing himself for impact. He raised the sword and slashed at the streak. The crackling light flitted easily back then flowed forward.
	It stilled for scarcely a second in front of Drust. The font half of a blue fox materialized at the head of the mist, nearly nose-to-nose with Drust. Without giving the Knight time to react, the fox sneezed. A puff of glittering indigo particles burst from the creature’s snout.
	Drust stumbled back, snarling, but it was too late. His knee bucked at his attempt. He teetered unsteadily on his feet, his eyes fluttering. His heel snagged on a vine, and he tumbled backward.
	Before he could hit the ground, more of the mist swirled to life behind him. The glow of the cloud crackled and intensified when he hit it as if surprised at his weight. The man laid there, his chest rising and falling with the steadiness of sleep.
	Margen swirled once in the air, his form blurring back into mist with the speed. Satisfied, he trotted down to ground level in front of Ghent.
	As the tichari's pace slowed, the mist formed into the familiar, silvery blue fox. Unlike in the Betwixt, here, his form took on a translucent, ghostly appearance. Blue and silver strands of electricity occasionally sparked through his body. The glow radiating from his fur illuminated the space around him like a living lantern. Mist rained upward from his back and swishing tail, only to dissolve into the air.
	Margen came to a stop in front of Ghent. He cocked his head and gave a crepitating yip. The sound rang with a hollow echo from his throat. His incandescent white eyes glanced from Ghent to the forest and back with a gentle whine, as if asking, “Ready, slowpoke?”