Fay gathered her fire and crushed it down into something smaller. Not a blaze. Not a lash. Dusts.
She coaxed her flame into fizzling motes, tiny sparks that shimmered teal, bright as beetle wings.
They trembled in the air around her fingers, weightless, harmless looking.
Then she released them. The motes drifted out in a loose cloud.
The Tiyanak noticed at once. Infant faces turned up, curious, mouths puckering in stupid delight.
One toddled forward and reached for the dazzling teal as if it were a firefly.
The moment it touched the spark, it ignited. It went up like dried straw.
Flame climbed its infant shape in a breath. It did not scream.
It only stiffened, blackening, flesh charring until it stood there burned and locked in place.
Still alive. Still twitching. A little smoking statue.
Fay's throat tightened. Around her, the other Tiyanak scattered, then circled back, giggling softer now, more wary.
She looked past them and saw what mattered. Pieces of the Preta.
