The void had become a canvas of blood and fire, every drifting shard painted in violet and starlight gore. The Witch of Grim towered above the wreckage, armor half rebuilt, seals spinning like furious galaxies.
Black blood poured from a hundred wounds that refused to close, yet she stood taller, soul-whip cracking, violet eyes promising annihilation.
Gladian wiped blood from her grin, doll dangling by one pin-pricked leg. "She's still twitching, rude."
Gortrius stood atop her largest undead construct, a towering abomination stitched from both goddesses' spilled essence. "Time for the finale, ladies. My babies are getting hungry again."
Glinda lounged on a floating chunk, love slaves kneeling at her feet, eyes shining with exhausted adoration. "Let's end this date before she gets clingy."
Hecate said nothing. She simply raised her hand higher which held a flame. The flame shifted from violet-black to pure white, bright enough to burn shadows away. The other three witches felt the shift and moved into position without a word.
They formed a perfect square around the Witch, each on a separate drifting shard.
Gladian began first. She pulled a single silver pin from her hair and stabbed it into the doll's heart. The Witch staggered, clutching her chest as invisible force squeezed. "Hold her still, darling," Gladian murmured. "We need precision."
Gortrius slammed both palms together. Every undead on the battlefield, hundreds now, froze, then melted into rivers of black and starlight blood that flowed across the void toward her.
The rivers coiled into a massive circle beneath the Witch's feet, forming a necromantic sigil that glowed corpse-green. "Floor's yours, but don't scuff the paint."
Glinda snapped her fingers once. Her remaining love slaves rose as one, walked to the edges of their shard, and leapt into the void.
They did not fall. Instead they hung suspended, forming a perfect ring of bodies around the Witch, arms outstretched, eyes glowing soft pink.
Their devotion became chains of rose-colored light that wrapped the Witch's limbs, pulling her wide, forcing her to float cruciform in the center. "Stay right there, beautiful," Glinda whispered. "We're almost done admiring you."
Hecate stepped forward last. She planted herself in the shard and spoke, voice quiet yet carrying the weight of every crossroads ever walked.
"By the torch that lights the way,
by the serpent that guards the gate,
by the blood of stars and graves,
we unmake what was never meant to stay."
The other three answered in perfect unison, voices layering like chords in an ancient hymn.
Gladian: "By needle and thread, I bind your name."
Gortrius: "By bone and rot, I steal your breath."
Glinda: "By heart unwilling, I break your claim."
Hecate raised her hand overhead. White fire poured upward, then inverted, becoming a perfect sphere that enclosed the Witch and the four witches both.
Inside the sphere, time slowed. The Witch thrashed, soul-whip lashing, but the rose chains held. The green sigil beneath her feet ignited, drinking every drop of spilled blood, hers, theirs, the void's.
Gladian drove the final pin, not into the doll, but into the air itself. The pin hung suspended, glowing silver. Threads of fate unraveled from it, weaving through the Witch's seals, tying knots around every sigil, every stolen soul.
Gortrius opened her arms. The undead rivers rose as one massive hand of bone and meat, closing gently around the Witch's torso, not to crush, but to hold. Inside the grip, the stolen souls began to wake, turning against their jailer, clawing inward.
Glinda blew a single kiss. The rose chains tightened, not with force but with love turned merciless. Every slave's devotion became a blade that cut away the Witch's connections to the void, to life, to power.
Hecate brought her hands down in a slow, deliberate arc.
The white fire met the silver threads, the green sigil, the rose chains, the bone hand.
Everything converged.
The Witch of Grim opened her mouth to scream.
No sound emerged.
Her body folded inward along the threads of fate, seals unraveling like old cloth. Black blood ignited into white ash.
The soul-whip dissolved into silent dust. The violet eyes dimmed, flickered, went dark.
She did not explode. She did not burn.
She simply came undone.
Piece by piece, thread by thread, the Witch of Grim ceased.
When the sphere of white fire faded, nothing remained except a single shard floating in the center, cracked down the middle, no longer glowing.
The four witches stood on their separate fragments, breathing hard, covered in blood both foreign and their own.
Gladian tucked the doll away and wiped her hands. "Well. That was dramatic."
Gortrius let her undead collapse into harmless dust. "Understatement of the century."
Glinda dismissed her slaves with a gentle wave; they dissolved into pink mist and peace. "She'll be missed. By no one."
Hecate lowered her arms, the flame dispersing.
The void began to heal around them, mist calming, shards settling.
Far away, the silver door still waited, patient as ever.
The Witch of Grim was gone.
For good.