Among the woods, the ash-white dead branches of grass and trees grew ever more indistinct. The dark brown soil was thick and sticky like a swamp. The eerie Whisper Mountain had lost its sky, and its starlight as well.
Only the figure of the White Queen, Emma Howlett, still bloomed with light. The diamond radiance that had always shone so brilliantly was not borrowed from anything outside.
It shone by its own power.
Agatha Harkness's voice echoed and drifted repeatedly through the empty valley. The Darkhold floating before her continuously devoured all the surrounding light.
"Since witches call it the Darkhold, they should know that this is power rightfully ours. Yet they discarded this most powerful weapon, content to become crones brewing potions, interpreting dreams, and reading the stars—driven by mystic arts practitioners to the farthest corners of the world, barely clinging to life!"
Hiss, hiss.
"Master Mark, is this the power of what is supposedly the most evil magic?"
The crackling hiss of magical flames reached her ears. Watching the witch create such a grand spectacle, Emma paid no mind to her howls and asked quietly.
The mage leapt aside to avoid a strand of black-violet flame that licked at his feet, then shook his head and explained, "The Darkhold is a force of black magic opposed to the strongest white magic, the Book of the Vishanti. Legend says that after the two books came into being one after the other, they became interdependent like day and night, like two sides of a coin. If one lost a page, the other would lose a corresponding page as well."
As the mage watched Emma shake out her gleaming diamond hair and walk toward a great tree carved with anti-magic runes, she raised a misty diamond phantom with one hand, effortlessly