Guinevere hadn't stopped blasting her with white magic. But this woman was still standing, triple chained, and talking.
"Triple chains. Three types of magic. And yet here we are," Emma commented. "None of you thought to chain my mouth." She paused. "I'm going to be honest. This is the least gifted duel I have ever been stuck in. You keep adding people and the standard keeps dying. This participation-trophy crew thinks mediocrity is acceptable."
Dark tendrils erupted from the gaps in the chains. They looked as solid as anacondas and sped towards Guinevere.
White crescents materialized behind Maddox and Nicholas. Small, curved, luminous blades that moved with the silent lethality of a scythe cutting wheat in moonlight. They sailed past both kings in paired arcs and met the tendrils mid-strike.
SNICK. SNICK. SNICK. SNICK. SNICK. SNICK.
Six heads. Six clean cuts. Six severed tendrils dissolving into smoke before they hit the stone.
