The men toppled like fallen trees, limbs twisting grotesquely, as Bristol’s magic ran wild across the battlefield. Her own scream heralded the sounds of the dying into the sky.
Aledorain felt his eardrums pop, as he grabbed onto Bristol’s ankle. He tried to haul himself towards her, like a dying man to shore, grunting as thorns scaled her skin and pricked his palms. His shield shuddered, as more power exploded from her. A fledgling though she was, for a moment Aledorain felt his death.
“Bristol, stop! Transfer it to me!”
It was too late. She was already gone.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: fledgling, prick, transfer)