The air thrums with residual energy where Malphus stood moments before. Isolde's breathing is ragged, her skin both numb and burning where his touch lingered. The ward pulses faintly around her, the magic still raw with her resistance to him.
She backs away slowly, feeling the stone floor cold against her bare feet, her fingers twitching at her sides. The cold from his touch lingers, creeping through her veins like a slow poison. Her pulse hammers in your throat, a wild rhythm that betrays her defiance.
Her reflection in the mirror shows a face flushed with more than just anger—a face alive with something dangerous. Her mouth is parted slightly, lips reddened from her ragged breathing. Her green eyes burn with a fierce light that wasn't there before. Even her red hair seems to have a slight sheen of frost to it, as if the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees in response to her reaction.
