The void had become a slaughterhouse of light and shadow, good and bad.
Gladian cartwheeled through the chaos, voodoo doll clutched like a beloved pet. She jammed three pins into its torso in rapid succession.
Twenty feet away, the Witch of Grim convulsed as invisible blades punched through her ribs, black blood spraying in perfect spheres that hung frozen before bursting into violet flame.
"Honey, your posture is terrible," Gladian called. "Let me fix that spine for you." Another pin, this one in the doll's neck, and the Witch's head snapped backward with a wet crack, vertebrae bulging beneath it.
Gortrius rode a wave of her own undead, standing atop a shambling giant stitched from spilled goddess blood and grave ichor.
She raised both arms like an orchestra conductor. "Left flank, darlings, rip her pretty body apart! Right flank, go for the knees!" The corpses obeyed with grotesque enthusiasm, swarming the Witch in a tide of clawing hands and snapping teeth.
One undead tore a seal clean from the Witch's thigh; the sigil screamed as it died. Gortrius laughed, blood running from a gash across her cheek. "That's it! Make her regret waking up today."
Glinda lounged on a floating chunk of shard, legs crossed, directing her love slaves with lazy flicks of silver leashes.
The shirtless thralls moaned in adoration, climbing the Witch's towering form like ivy on a dying tree. One wrapped arms around her throat and kissed the cracked orifice there until armor melted from sheer devotion.
Another pressed his body against a bleeding wound, licking violet fire, slowing regeneration with mindless worship.
"Careful, sweets," Glinda purred. "Don't bruise her too hard, she's delicate." The Witch seized one slave by the face and crushed his skull; the body kept hugging her leg, arms tightening in death.
Hecate moved through the center like judgment itself, torch and staff twin blurs of violet-black fire. She struck high; the Witch parried with a soul-whip that wrapped the torch shaft.
Hecate twisted, yanked the Witch forward, and drove her knee into the exposed chest. Armor caved; seals shattered. The Witch answered by headbutting downward, splitting Hecate's brow to the bone.
Starlight blood poured into her eyes. She blinked it away and answered with a spinning staff strike that carved a burning canyon across the Witch's torso. Black organs spilled, writhing, trying to crawl back inside.
Gladian saw the opening. "Group project time!" She sprinted across drifting debris, leapt, and landed on the Witch's shoulder.
Pins flashed: one in each doll joint. The Witch's real arms locked rigid, muscles exploding in black sprays. "Hold still, you oversized pincushion."
Gortrius vaulted from her undead giant, landing on the Witch's back. She jammed both hands into the canyon wound Hecate had carved and pulled. Flesh tore in wet sheets; a lung came free, still inflating. Gortrius raised it like a trophy. "Look what I found! Anyone want souvenirs?" The undead swarmed higher, chewing through exposed spine.
Glinda's remaining slaves reached the Witch's face. One kissed the ruined mouth; her lips cracked further under the weight of enforced love.
Another wrapped arms around the regenerating eye and squeezed until violet fire leaked like tears. Glinda sighed dramatically. "You're breaking their hearts, darling. Literally."
The Witch roared fury that shattered three nearby shards into dust. She detonated her seals again, violet nova exploding outward.
Love slaves vaporized. Undead flew apart in burning chunks. Gladian tumbled backward, doll clutched tight, laughing through bloodied teeth.
Gortrius rode the blast wave like a surfboard, landing in a crouch. Hecate planted her staff and absorbed the fire, torch blazing brighter.
The Witch rose taller, armor rebuilding, seals spinning faster. She cracked her soul-whip; the chain reformed longer, thicker, souls screaming in fresh agony.
Gladian wiped blood from her grin. "Oh, she's mad now. My favorite part."
Gortrius cracked her neck, already raising new undead from the nova's fallout. "Round whatever-we're-on. Place your bets."
Glinda summoned fresh slaves from the mist itself, new bodies, same blank adoration. "Boys, mommy needs hugs. Big ones."
Hecate said nothing, only advanced through the settling ash, torch and staff ready.
The four witches closed in again.
The Witch of Grim met them with a smile that dripped molten hate.
Blood rained and laughter rang sharp as breaking glass. Magic and fists collided in endless, vicious harmony.
The void burned brighter, unable to contain the war that refused to pause, refuse to end, refuse to let anyone win or fall this day.
They fought on, four against one, goddesses and witches tearing eternity itself apart one glorious, bloody heartbeat at a time.
The Witch of Grim detonated another nova, violet fire washing over the battlefield like a tidal wave of graves. Gladian flipped through the blast, hair singed, doll smoking but intact.
She landed in a crouch and stabbed four pins into the doll's limbs at once. The Witch's real arms and legs locked rigid, joints exploding outward in black blood that sprayed across the void like ink in water. "Dance lessons are over, sweetie. Time to kneel."
Gortrius rode the shockwave, laughing maniacally as her undead reformed from the fire itself, charred skeletons wrapped in burning starlight flesh. "New look, everyone! Very apocalyptic chic."
She pointed, and the horde swarmed higher, clawing through the Witch's reforming armor, tearing away plates the size of shields. One undead jammed its entire arm into a chest wound and pulled out a fistful of violet heart-meat still beating. Gortrius caught it mid-air and took a theatrical bite.
"Needs salt." She said.
Glinda's fresh slaves moaned through the flames, skin blistering but eyes shining with undimmed worship. They tackled the Witch's legs again, wrapping limbs around thighs thick as tree trunks, kissing bleeding seals until the runes dimmed and cracked.
One slave pressed his mouth to a geyser of black blood and drank until his belly swelled and burst; the body kept clinging, intestines trailing like lovers' ribbons.
Hecate strode through the inferno untouched, torch carving burning sigils in the air that slammed into the Witch like hammers. Each sigil exploded on contact, peeling away layers of obsidian flesh in molten sheets.
The Witch roared and swung her rebuilt soul-whip; the chain caught Hecate around the waist, souls biting deep enough to expose ribs of pure starlight. Hecate seized the chain, yanked the Witch forward, and drove her staff through the open mouth. Violet-black fire poured down the throat, burning from within.
Gladian leapt onto the Witch's back, riding the convulsions. "Hold still, you great gloomy mountain." Pins rained: eyes, throat, spine, heart. Each strike drew fountains of black blood that painted the void in screaming constellations.
Gortrius' undead climbed the staff like a pole, chewing through the Witch's regenerating tongue. Glinda's slaves reached the face, kissing ruined eyes until violet fire leaked like tears.
The Witch convulsed, wounds steaming, seals flickering, but still standing, still swinging, still bleeding rivers that refused to run dry.
The witches pressed closer, grinning through gore, magic blazing hotter.
The void burned on, endless and alive with war.