The Mole's POV

The moon disappeared behind the thick black smoke. The air turned acrid, like burnt hair and rotten flesh. It was a masterpiece.

She had been storing up energy for days, a collection of blood, hair, and herbs along with her hours of slumber.

Stirring in the quartz bowl, the mole watched the concoction swirl, bubbling and boiling. Smoke billowed off of it, drifting out the window. She murmured furiously over the bowl.

This was it.

She was running ...