There was no measure to her attacks, no strategy other than absolute annihilation.
She went mad with grief, her movements fueled by a sadistic, predatory fury. She conjured Fire Chains that didn't just bind the nearest Elder Syvrak; they tightened with a sickening crunch, snapping scales and pulverizing bone until the sixty-foot beast screeched in a pitch that shattered the air.
She laughed—a cold, jagged sound—as she watched the creatures suffer. She began to use their own blood against them, superheating the fluids within their bodies until they boiled from the inside out. It was brutal. It was methodical. It was the work of a monster who had forgotten how to be anything else.
She set explosive mines beneath the feet of the retreating pack, not to kill them, but to maim them, blowing off limbs and leaving the ancient beasts writhing in the dirt so she could deal with them slowly. Her Fire Whips flayed the scales from their backs, exposing the raw, tender meat beneath.
