It seemed as if an ancient voice thundered in the ears of the wizards, with every cell sounding an alarm, urging them to flee.
They retreated, seeing the girl with dark long hair approaching them in the darkness, her right hand holding a silver-blue string sword, and her left clutching "Popeya's Coronation," an instrument resembling a cello, to her chest, with her skirt flaring like a newly blossomed flower.
Petals and the girl's face were stained with blood; she brought death and repose, singing a lullaby that her mother used to hum beside her bed, enacting a drama named death wherever she walked.
Pure white flower vines twined around Sevia's fingertips, clear blue spirals resonating along the strings. The instrument morphed into any shape, the girl's eyes dispensing death without mercy, yet tenderly offering the dead compassion.
