The crossbow bolt gleams with etched silver runes that pulse like veins of captured moonlight, its fletching woven from ethereal strands that whisper of distant planes. Upon impact, it erupts in a vortex of howling winds, shredding the air with cracks of thunder as the target's form warps and dissolves into swirling mist. What remains is a fading echo, banished to realms unseen, leaving scorched earth and the faint scent of ozone.