SILVER PACT
Siran drew her staff, tracing protective sigils in the air.
“Fall back!” she shouted. “It’s losing stability!”
The adepts retreated toward the ridge, but Nira stood frozen, her eyes blank with silver light. The mirror below her erupted tendrils of bloom-thread wrapping around her form, not in attack, but in fusion. She was being absorbed or transformed.
“Nira!” Siran cried, rushing forward. She slammed her staff into the ground, channeling a burst of energy through it. The threads recoiled slightly, enough for her to grab Nira’s arm.
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