Faouzia and Faust screamed as the roots surged upward, encasing their bodies in twisting bark and thorns. Their skin hardened, their limbs grew rigid, and their cries turned hollow as they were pulled into the wood itself. The crowd, still scattered and watching from afar, murmured in fear as the devil's work unfolded before their eyes.

Mephistopheles stood before the grotesque transformation, his own form dimming but his eyes burning with unyielding rage. His voice, heavy and deliberate, cut through the tension like a blade.

“You sought wisdom to control Faouzia,” he said, pointing at Faust. “You obeyed your jealousy to destroy Margaretta,” he added, turning his glare to Faouzia. “Now, you shall be what you have made—a union of betrayal, a monument to your sins!”

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The roots solidified into two species, their forms fusing into a single towering sculpture of the two humans. Faust's side bore the pale, gnarled wood of white oak, its surface marred by cracks and alchemical runes. Faouzia's side was a rich, medium-brown acacia, smoother but riddled with sharp thorns, the constellations of her astronomancy etched faintly into the grain.

Mephistopheles raised his hand, his fingers glowing. With a gesture, he finished his work, binding them to the grove outside Venice, a place of both pilgrimage and dread.

“You will share existence,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with something dangerously close to sorrow. “By day, she will move. By night, you will stir. At dawn and dusk, your fates will align, but never enough to reach one another. Let this be a warning: love is no one’s to command.”