Seraphina was not a trained mage weaving a complex spell. She was acting on the purest, most terrifying force in the universe: emotional rejection.
She didn't want him dead; she wanted him gone.
She wanted the filthy, disgusting monster that ate children to be erased from the canvas of reality.
Her core, completely untethered by magical theory, simply executed the command.
The mist continued to wrap around him.
It was no longer just vines. The shadows were merging, bleeding together, expanding upward from the ground to envelop his entire form.
The Trickster watched in paralyzing horror as a thick, impenetrable dome of black mana curved over his body.
It was weaving a shell, building a cocoon.
The darkness crept up over his chest, swallowing his ruined, garish coat. It crept up over his shoulders, sealing his arms permanently to his sides, and rose to the back of his head, curving over his pale, curse-marked face.
