The darkness remained unbroken.
Oizys drifted, her senses carved away one by one. There was no horizon, no ceiling, no whisper of direction. Her mind stretched thin, screaming silently for definition, until at last—something rippled through the void.
A silhouette coalesced before her, drawn not in form but in fractured intent. White chalk-like outlines twisted and scribbled across a vaguely humanoid figure, pulsing in and out of focus like an animated sketch caught mid-frame.
The figure stood still, faceless and trembling, as though the void itself recoiled from its presence.
Oizys didn't hesitate. A scythe—vast, curved, and inked in madness—manifested from her aura.
She moved in a flash of thought, and the weapon's edge hovered at the stranger's throat. The act was seamless, her instincts taking over before thought returned.
The chalk-figure jerked back, arms raised in a plea. "Wait—wait! Don't hurt me! Please!"
