Fire would be suicide here. She could feel it—the blood magic woven into the walls, hungry for heat, ready to turn any flame against her in a roaring backlash.
"All right," she murmured. "Cold it is."
The chef charged, boots thundering across stone.
Luna raised her staff.
"Glacies forma, ven'thal!"
Frost exploded outward in a focused burst, coating the floor in a sheet of slick ice. The chef's momentum carried him forward; his foot slipped. For half a heartbeat he teetered.
That was enough.
She flicked her wrist. Shards of ice spun low and fast, slicing through the tendons behind his knees. He dropped heavily onto one leg with a bellow that shook pots on their hooks.
The maids attacked together.
