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Description
The air crackled with raw energy as Bloom’s wings blazed like sunlight against the storm-dark sky. Darcy’s laughter slithered through the chaos, her shadowy tendrils clawing at the edges of reality. “Foolish fairy,” the witch sneered, “your flames are nothing against the void!” But Bloom clenched her fists, sparks dancing in her eyes—not just fire, but sharp, shimmering strategy. She’d learned battles weren’t won by brute force alone. Darcy’s illusions twisted the battlefield: jagged rocks became serpents, the ground melted into tar. Instead of striking blindly, Bloom inhaled, focusing on the faint, discordant pulse beneath Darcy’s magic—*fear*. The witch thrived on doubt, so Bloom fed her the opposite: a memory. The warmth of her friends’ laughter, Stella’s stubborn hope, the unbreakable thread of their unity. The vision erupted like a supernova, piercing the shadows. Darcy recoiled, her own power mirroring her sudden hesitation. “Nice trick,” she hissed, but her voice frayed at the edges. Bloom grinned, charging forward. “Who said it was a trick?” Victory wasn’t in the blaze—it was in the spark that refused to die.
