[11]

Cyril planted herself on the steps of the cathedral; her mind abuzz with pleading prayers and fearful wishes. As tens of voices plagued her, she lashed out at the magical storm that encroached on her. The first time she had stopped the storm, it had been by pure luck. The second time, she had figured it out. Now, she was pushing back against it - whilst trying not to lose her mind to the voices.

This was why she had to leave. The voices wouldn't stop, even when she was trying to stop this storm from coming closer. She had already pushed it back a few blocks from the plaza on all sides. In its wake, the conquered ground had been left frosted over and covered in snow up to her thigh. A few frozen figures were barely visible in the snow. People who had tried to escape the blizzard. The ones who thought their homes would be safe.

Moonlight and lanterns illuminated the plaza and the structure behind her. It was the last bastion of safety from the storm as she had created a vast eye in the storm. Heat and cold clashed all around. Life and death. The living and the dead. Cyril wasn't ignorant of what lurked in the storm. What waited on the cusp should she fail. She could feel their thick black taint in the wind. It wasn't a feeling she knew before, but when she felt it, she knew what it was.

Miasma. Corrupted Mana. The perversion of life itself, and it was controlling the storm. Cyril knew it was not the one who cast it, no, the mana that stirred the wind was different from its. It was mindless and mechanical. It only mended and added more mana when needed.

Soon, the voices began to go silent. One by one. As if embers where being snuffed out by the winds, or the undead. And with silenced voice, the storm grew stronger. It grew faster. Then it began to push back. The invisible clashing of mana as Cyril tried to bend the storm to her will. It was not that she lacked the power, this she could feel in her draw; it was that she was a large clumsy bull to an agile lion. She could beat it with skill and agility, but she just didn't have that.

It was only with pouring so much mana, so much will, that she had fought it back. Now, she was being pushed back. She gave up on pushing back and lashed out wildly at the mana. She went for a different approach. She would cut at it and see what happened. Instead of trying to control the entire area, she began to focus the mana into blade-like weapons that flew.

Faint golden blades, as big as log mill saws, cut across the sky. One after another, as quick as she could throw them. At first, the storm took the opening to advance, but the being controlling the storm hadn't expected Cyril to change tactics. The storm was disrupted as condensed mana cut through it. Left, right, center. High. Low. She disrupted the mana, and it proved to be a better tactic than stonewalling.