The wild one would be flung back, but so would she in the shock wave that would follow.
Yet it wouldn't be met without a measure of victory.
The tight grip that the woman bore upon the wild one would have tainted her. Marked her for her own. Blood in, blood out. Her laughter would follow, amidst the sudden shudder of the foundations as the temple ground would open like the maw of a sarlaac.
You'll never be free of me.
Would scretch the words of the Chosen of Vahl upon the Wild one, imprinted and seared to her mind.
Nihil smokestone and obsidion would crack, shift, uplift, and sink.
Isolda's body disappearing under the dark.