Alvin's patience finally snapped somewhere around the thirteenth explosion.
The teleportation rune flared, twisted, warped itself into the magical equivalent of a knot, and then detonated in his face with a loud pop that sent smoke spiraling through the entire chamber.
Alvin, covered in soot, stood very still.
The rune diagram on the floor sizzled like a burnt pancake.
A single spark floated upward and fizzled.
Alvin's eye twitched.
"That," he said slowly, dangerously, "is the thirteenth failure."
A silence hung over the room. A tense, heavy silence that trembled with the promise of violence.
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
And then threw his quill across the room.
