The street became a maelstrom. The ghost child blurred in and out of existence around Mot, striking from impossible angles. The dancer's every motion swelled the undead ranks, tightening the noose. And the Death Knight pressed forward in a straight, merciless line toward the heart of it all.
Ludwig found himself almost pitying the boy. To any observer, Mot was buried under an onslaught no single person should be able to withstand. Fire, poison, steel, and a tide of clawing dead pressed from every side. The branches of the flesh-tree groaned under the constant assault, pieces torn away only to regenerate again in slow pulses.
Then, in the middle of that chaos, Mot simply shook his head. It was a tiny gesture, but Ludwig caught the faint exhale, the slow blink that followed. The boy raised his hands, small, pale, deceptively fragile.
The world rippled.
