Starry Eyed Fighters

Chapter 4: An Exit from a young boy?

Belle studied the two doors carefully, examining every detail as she weighed her options. After a moment, she decided to try her luck with the right door, which seemed less menacing than the ominous one on the left.

Just as she reached out to grasp the handle, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the darkness surrounding her. The noise startled Belle, and she quickly spun around, her small sphere of light illuminating the pitch-black void as she searched for the source.

"Who's there? Show yerself!" she demanded, her voice steady but tinged with caution.

The fear creeping into her chest was swiftly accompanied by a surge of adrenaline, preparing her to confront whatever lurked in the shadows.

The footsteps grew louder, drawing nearer with a pitter-patter rhythm that made her pulse quicken.

"Whoever ye are, I've still got enough strength left in me to turn this wee place to ashes," Belle declared, her tone firm.

A playful voice responded from the darkness, "That wouldn't be a clever idea, seeing as this path is your only way in or out, pointy-eared girl."

Belle's breath caught as she felt a light tap on her left shoulder. Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach as she turned her head slightly, catching sight of a barely discernible black-hooded figure in her peripheral vision. Even with her light, she could only make out a pair of still arms hanging by the figure's sides.

Assuming the worst, Belle quickly rubbed her palms together, summoning a small Consuete fireball spell in her palm, dropping her bag to the ground as she pivoted to face her would-be assailant.

The shadowy figure retreated a few paces, appearing to gauge her reaction. Without hesitation, Belle hurled the fireball at him like a baseball pitcher aiming for a strike, her movements swift and precise.

"If I knock ye out, ye better have some answers for me," she shouted as the blazing orb sped toward its target.

The figure ducked beneath the fiery projectile with surprising agility and rushed forward, both arms reaching out in an attempt to grapple her.

Before she could dodge, the figure closed the distance and gripped her wrists tightly, lifting her arms above her head. Belle struggled against the vice-like hold, glancing up at her restrained hands and then back at her captor. The figure's hands were small—almost childlike—and she deduced from their size that her attacker was likely a boy, perhaps half her age.

"Oi, lad, I used to play on one o' the best Gaelic football teams in the world," Belle growled. "Ye'd better brace yerself."

Twisting her waist, she swung her right leg in a powerful roundhouse kick. Her foot connected with the figure's head, forcing him to his knees and sending a pair of sunglasses flying off his face. The lenses shattered as they hit the ground.

With a pained yelp, the boy released her wrists and staggered backward, pulling off his hood to reveal a youthful face. He rubbed the sore spot on his head with a grimace.

Free from the boy's grasp, Belle summoned more light to get a better look at him. He appeared to be around twelve or thirteen years old, with a slim build and ebony skin. Short black curls, highlighted with red tips, framed his face.

"Just as I thought—a shrimp," Belle said, a small grin forming as she realized her guess had been accurate.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her wrist. She glanced down to see that her veins had begun to bleed, ruptured by the pressure of the boy's grip. She murmured an Elven healing spell in Irish to mend the injury, all the while scrutinizing the boy with narrowed eyes.