As Iblis's scythe plunged into the earth's fissure, the River Styx surged backward into her bone marrow. Six of the twelve chains suddenly snapped, their barbed links tearing away vast swaths of flesh from her left arm. The black blood transformed into screeching ravens before it even hit the ground, every beak clutching a scrap of parchment inscribed with the word "Breach"—the price demanded by the Reaper for tampering with fate.
"That woman is out of control..." The dungeon of Malfoy Manor was thick with the stench of spoiled wine, and Voldemort's charm had pulverized the oak casks into splinters. Riddle's figure appeared distorted within the green flames; his youthful, handsome face was covered in spiderweb-like cracks from the backlash, and his meticulously groomed fingertips were carbonizing at a visible rate. The burn marks of the soul contract ran right through two generations of Dark Lords, and the severed tail of Nagini suddenly spattered black blood mixed with shattered chain links.
Voldemort's pale fingers crushed the goblet, and the green light erupting from the tip of his wand blasted three Death Eaters into bloody mist. "Iblis!" His slit-like pupils contracted, his scar-riddled face twitching from the double backlash. "I'd love to carve her heart right out! And those Aurors—if those ants hadn't blockaded the Ministry, Dumbledore would already be dead beneath my wand!"
Chapter 243