LYRE
Her attempt at offensive magic is… cute, I guess.
I flick my fingers in her direction with a sigh. The blood missiles dissolve midair, raining harmless droplets across the floor, splattering across my boots. The corrosive spell makes it a few more inches before dissolving with a faint hiss, leaving only the faintest etching on the floor.
Isabeau stumbles back, throwing a few more spells my way.
They all fail. Spectacularly.
It isn't hard; disrupting arcana isn't something anyone can do, but it's been a special talent of mine since childhood. Chaos, after all, is my purview.
Seriously, does this girl remember nothing? Perhaps all her deaths have addled what little capacity she had for thought.
"You should be weak," she hisses, unable to fathom her terrible reasoning being… well, wrong.
I uncross my arms, genuinely perplexed at this point. Her stupidity is almost endearing in its persistence. Almost.
