Ivory’s scream was not of fear, it was a war cry, raw and thunderous, echoing through the swamp like a promise made to the dead. Her fingers clenched around the wand, and then the air cracked. Lightning erupted, not just from the tip but from her. It coursed through her arms, through her spine, threading through her like veins of living fire.

The four necromancers froze only for a breath. Then the electricity struck them, a blinding arc leaping from her body, fingers and wand to their hollow forms. Their bodies seized, bones illuminated through their skin like a lantern’s flame inside rotting silk. In a sudden burst of light, they were thrown back lifted into the air by the force of it, flung like broken puppets into the mist.

Ivory stood tall, barefoot in the grass and mud, her chest rising, glowing wand still alive in her hands. Around her, the storm pulsed with her heartbeat. She wasn’t just fighting anymore she was claiming the space around her, the power inside her. And for the first time, the necromancer knew what it meant to fear her.