A doll that grips magic.
Its witch watches as the world seems to warp around its fingers. Like so much stretched taffy, like a image sewn into elastic cloth.
She nods to it.
'Continue'.
And, on her command -
It tears a hole in the fabric of reality.
The result serves as a strict reminder of the difference between "zero" and "null", between "empty" and "absence".
Just as quickly as it was torn, the witch seams the tear, dragging her doll away from the rapidly healing wound.
She takes the doll into her arms, hugging it as tightly as she can.
The majority of the doll, at least.
She'll need to replace its hand.
The hand that caused the tear disappeared into the absence behind it.
An ache floods through the witch: that she made her doll do something so dangerous.
Granted, she can replace its hand more easily than she can her own, but -
It squeezes her back.
She steadies herself again.
Everything will be okay.