Luna turned back toward the chef.
It was already on its feet.
Blood steamed where frost clung to its skin, muscles swelling unnaturally as it tore the ice apart with brute force. It wrenched the embedded cleaver free and hurled it.
Luna deflected it with a sharp twist of her staff, the blade spinning away to clatter uselessly across the floor.
The chef roared and charged again.
Luna planted her feet and chanted, voice low and deliberate.
"Ael'thara glacies, thren morta."
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted again. Frost crept across walls, over tables, up the hanging hooks. The chef slowed mid-charge, movements stiffening as ice crawled along its joints. Luna advanced, unhurried now, and drove a lance of condensed frost straight through its skull.
The body collapsed, shattering as it hit the frozen floor.
The remaining maids hesitated.
That was their mistake.
