Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Rubidi’s void-cloaked form rippled, bristling, her shape barely holding to humanoid. Darkness sluiced off her like oil, and the air—or the lack of it—seemed to bend harder around her presence. She didn’t step forward, but the space before her bent as it shoved at Severa like a rising tide.

“You don’t want to fight me.” Rubidi snarled. “I taught you everything you know. I built your foundation. Every clever thought you’ve ever had traces back to me. Don’t forget who pulled you into your little stardom when your daddy left you to rot—”

Severa’s hand slid beneath the folds of her cloak and drew out a dagger. The metal was unlike anything he’d ever seen: dark and so smooth to the point of oily, yet points of light coruscated from its surface, as if the metal itself contained distant stars. It drew Fabrisse’s gaze like a moth to flame.