Inside the vision, the fight whittled down to chaos.
Skulkers lay scattered like broken toys…
At last, only one skulker remained, its hide blistered, tail half‑severed.
It limped in a circle, hissing.
Adrian, chest heaving, raised his wand for the coup de grâce—then hesitated.
The creature crouched low, its little lungs rattling, and opened its maw.
A globule of blue fire guttered on its tongue: a perfectly imperfect imitation of Adrian's spell.
"Oh, no you don't," Adrian snarled, stabbing his wand forward.
Too late.
The skulker spat.
The makeshift fireball wobbled, veered left, straight into Elaine's chest.
She had turned, trying to cast a healing spell on a bleeding Peter.
The spell struck dead‑centre, bathing her robes in azure flame.
She gasped once, sound swallowed by smoke.
The skulker toppled a beat later, spent, its mimic spell fizzling out as its life bled away.
A horrible quiet descended.
