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Ghalta's Green Decree
Sixteen mana. No apology.
Primal force in a green collar — Ghalta does not negotiate. Sixteen mana leaves the hand and the table remembers hunger.
Twelve-twelve on the line. Defenses are garnish. Your life total is a suggestion she declines politely by declining nothing.
Llanowar trembles in its roots. Spells flash like insect wings. She is the end of the argument you started when you tapped out.
Untamed is not a vibe. It is policy.
The trample sound is the decree.
JV · Dark Heart Labs