As the Veins Weep Black

Black veins surged like living vines, thick as rope and tipped with thorns. They didn't just wrap around Killian's wrist—they punctured it, barbed tips threading into his skin with surgical hunger.

Worse, they climbed. Fast. Hungrier.

One tendril constricted around his forearm. Another lunged for his throat, needle-teeth glistening. A hiss of cursed breath filled the space between them—

"No." Killian snatched a card from his belt. "You won't get Fanfar."

He hurled it. The card struck—and imploded, devoured midair by black tendrils splitting into jagged mouths. They gnawed at the magic like starved dogs.

Ash rained down.

Another card. Another. Again. Each one crumbled to nothing, eaten before the sparks could catch.

And still the veins came, relentless.

The first drop of blood swelled from Killian's wrist. It hung there, a trembling ruby, as time itself held its breath—

Then—

CRACK.

The mirror exploded.