The battle is ended, the hunters vanished and the spirits flown. All that remains in the middle of the field is a small cloth bag, full of little cartoon spells.
The Veil turns. It strained to its thinnest point, and was not rent. Despite that magician’s best efforts.
It’s so light in my hand, this bag. He’ll get more spells, unless I’ve terrified him to the point that he’ll never do this again. Which I doubt. He now knows himself to be fighting a war. I foresee that he’ll become a hunter, and wage this battle again.
Perhaps, someday, I will kill him.
But these spells, at least, will do no more damage. A puff of fire–like so!–and they are gone.
Happy Halloween, my children. Till next year.