Control
Tap the screen to play
c
The air crackles with raw energy as Bloom, wings ablaze in hues of celestial fire, squares off against Darcy’s twisted silhouette. Shadows coil around the witch like serpents, her laughter sharp enough to fracture the battlefield’s obsidian sky. Bloom’s fists clench—not at her sides, but behind her back, fingertips tracing glyphs of strategy into her palms. Darcy thrives on chaos, on reckless spells hurled in desperation. To swing wildly is to lose. Every flick of the witch’s wrist unravels reality: jagged illusions of thorned vines, mirrors that spit back warped reflections, whispers that claw at Bloom’s resolve. The trick isn’t shielding against the onslaught—it’s listening *past* it. That faint tremor in Darcy’s incantation? A half-second gap between hexes. The way her shadow recoils from the leftmost mirror? A weakness stitched into the illusion’s seams. Bloom pivots, not toward the witch, but toward a shard of broken crystal underfoot. Her fire dims, cooling into a blade of pure light. Darcy snarls, mistaking restraint for retreat—until the crystal shard ignites, its refracted beam slicing through the witch’s shadow-puppetry. The ground splinters, revealing a labyrinth of ancient runes beneath. Darcy’s magic falters; her tricks have rules, and rules can be *unwritten*. One puzzle remains: a serpentine riddle etched into the air itself. Bloom’s flames dance in her irises as she pieces together the witch’s twisted logic—each syllable a trap, each answer a potential explosion. She breathes in, then speaks the counter-rhyme softly, unraveling Darcy’s voice mid-curse. The victory isn’t in flames, but in the smirk that falters on the witch’s lips as her own darkness swallows her whole.
