"Raëdrithar."
The glade inhaled.
Bolts of white‑blue exploded from her shoulders, racing down arms in branching rivers, converging in the hollow of her palms. She did not scream; the power was fierce yet felt designed for her bones, a glove sliding onto a long‑empty hand. The rivers surged into a single torrent that punched downward.
The lake responded. Lightning tore from surface to sky, mirroring the strike she loosed into the unseen spiral beneath her kneeling form. For an instant she glimpsed the mortal chamber overlaying this dream: wooden dais, blue sap flaring, runes erupting like silver flowers where bark split. She heard wardancers shouting in alarm far above, felt Raëdrithar's physical body howl—a triumph‑note, not pain.
