Dean moved like a ghost through the frozen clearing. His boots pressed against snow that no longer sank underfoot, his cloak drifting weightless in the world locked between heartbeats. Around him, the rough wizard still stood mid-step, Gilgamel pretended frozen, and the drifting flakes of snow hovered in the air like dust motes in a beam of moonlight.
He came to a halt before the witch, whose outstretched hand remained frozen in a half-formed curse, her painted smile twisted into a sneer that no longer moved.
Dean tilted his head, studying her — not with caution but with idle, almost bored curiosity.
"This old witch is really courageous," He murmured to himself, voice echoing faintly in the timeless hush: "She heard about my reputation yet still dares to come crawling to me with her meager strength. Does she really think that just because her realm is higher than mine, she can do anything to me?"
