The pages of her two grimoires fluttered with an eerie resonance, like the beating wings of caged birds. The scent of magic thickened in the air as Malefica moved her hands with deliberate precision.
"Compress,"
she murmured, her voice laced with cold intent.
The space around the two figures began to distort violently. The air seemed to fold upon itself, as if it were clay in the hands of a master sculptor. Invisible forces bent and twisted the very fabric of reality, pressing in from all sides.
The sky above shimmered and contracted, like the stretching of elastic, as if the entire universe itself were being compressed into a smaller, tighter space.
The pressure built steadily, a low hum vibrating through Cassandra's chest, until it reached a sharp, unbearable point.
Cassandra's palm stung, blood trickling from her skin, forming droplets that glowed faintly in the dim space. As they pooled on her hand, the blood twisted and transformed, drawn by her magic.
