White Flames

The white flames licked the ice with monstrous voracity. This was no ordinary combustion, but pure and absolute devouring. Mathilde's frost runes disintegrated into a shower of shimmering dust, and the prison of ice did not melt into water but into an acidic mist that corroded the ground.

The stranger did not move. His bat-like wings, streaked with luminescent veins, remained still, as if sculpted from obsidian. His brown eyes fixed on the corrupted puddle, now exposed.

The tentacles writhed under the assault of the flames, their flesh blackening and curling. Yet, instead of retreating, they tried to coil around the fire, their countless mouths opening to swallow it. A sickening gurgle filled the air.

But this fire was unlike any other. It did not consume—it disintegrated. Everything it touched was erased, leaving no ashes behind.

And it was not merely an element. It obeyed its master's will, pulsing in unison with him as if they were one and the same.