Malvoria had not expected the ground to fight back.
It wasn't the raw earth itself—she was used to bending stone and soil to her will, accustomed to carving out fortifications and summoning up walls with a thought.
No, it was the ancient, tangled magic sleeping beneath the castle that resisted her every command.
Demon lands were stitched with ley lines, veins of old power that ran deep and did not appreciate being prodded, especially when the intent was to create a permanent portal to the Celestian realm. The land remembered old wars, old wounds.
Veylira stood a few paces away, cloak thrown off, her silver hair tied up in a warrior's knot, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she traced symbols into the dust with her staff.
Every movement she made was precise, her voice rising and falling in the strange, tonal language of spell-weaving—one Malvoria had never quite managed to master, but respected all the same.
