They stood amidst the apocalyptic ruin of the garden, separated by ten yards of scorched earth and fused glass. Both were panting, their breaths coming in wet, ragged gasps that sounded like tearing silk.
The once pristine pond was nothing more than a dry, cracked crater of steaming mud. The ancient oaks that had shaded the Academy for centuries had been stripped to blackened, skeletal stumps, their bark vaporized by the elemental clash.
Helena was a ghost of herself. Her arms hung limp at her sides, fingers twitching spasmodically from magical overload.
Her wings, those magnificent instruments of wind, were gone, leaving only raw, red welts along her shoulder blades where the mana had burned away. Her face was a slick mask of sweat, soot, and tears that carved pale rivers through the grime.
She had nothing left.
Not a drop of energy, not a shred of conviction.
Her last great spell had been a scream into the void, and the void had screamed back.
