The cold iron looks on, readying cannons for the next volley. The witch stops mid flight waiting the onslaught. Burst after burst, the witch ducks and dives. Timed blasts fizzle through her hair.

I miss you, the soft fire, gentle music, the warmth of your eyes and your hand in mine. I stand in front, closed and condemned.

The witch found another such as herself. One who understood the differences in magics, in the flourishes, and cantrips. They part, knowing the world is never too large.