Asleif had little doubt she was the superior magic-user here, but only a fool sought confrontation with even a mildly talented enchanter in their place of power. And blood magics? Twas one of the few arts that she had barely dabbled in.
"I hath no wish to smite thee, Vincent," she replied, her composure regained and largely back under her control.
He was right, absolutely right, though it was not in her nature to admit to her mistakes.
"Time," she said, "hath a way of slipping away from us all, most certainly with the varied challenges to beings of power that doth infest this mortal world."
It was not exactly an apology, not an admission of guilt, but it did serve to forestall conflict.
And? Truth be told to thee, reader, and no other? Asleif had no one. No companion, no lover, no friend here in the mortal world (or even Asgard, truly), save, perhaps for Vincent.
"What art done, art done, and naught be left but to carry on with what the new world doth dictate."
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