A serpent the size of a subway train erupted from his brush, its scales reflecting scenes from nightmares that had never been dreamed. It struck like a living whip, its coils wrapping around Ma'at's torso and slamming her back-first into the remains of a building.
Concrete exploded around her impact, chunks of debris raining down as the serpent's grip tightened. Ma'at felt her ribs creak under pressure that operated according to artistic rather than physical laws.
She spoke a word of cutting, trying to sever the serpent's painted reality.
But the creature had been painted with layers of existence—each time she cut through one layer of its being, another layer beneath proved even more real, more solid, more impossible to unmake.
The serpent's head reared back, preparing to strike. Its fangs dripped with venom that existed in colors beyond the visible spectrum, each drop capable of poisoning the very concept of divine immunity.
