The room was still.
The stew was gone. The dishes washed.
Argolaith sat in the center of the training chamber, the silver-and-blue runes of the floor humming faintly beneath him. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long amber shafts through the lattice windows.
He took a breath.
And focused.
The spark within him flickered—uneven, raw, but present. It wasn't like other magic he had seen. It didn't surge or burn or shimmer with color.
It whispered.
It was like a thread being plucked in a distant realm—its sound reaching him through layers of silence.
Argolaith closed his eyes and followed it inward.
At first, there was only pressure. A dizzying sensation behind his eyes, like a thousand thoughts trying to form at once.
His chest tightened.
The room swayed.
He gritted his teeth.
Push through it.
Sweat beaded at his brow. His fingers trembled. The dizziness sharpened, like trying to stand upright in a dream of tilting horizons.
But then—
It snapped into place.
