The chamber shook as Zyran hurled a vase across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards scattering like glittering fireflies before vanishing into shadow. The sound echoed through the obsidian hall — sharp, furious, alive.
"Useless," he muttered through clenched teeth. "All of it. Useless!"
He paced like a caged storm, his golden cuffs clinking faintly against his wrists. The air around him pulsed, responding to his fury; the torches lining the walls flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished black floor — disheveled, furious, divine.
On the center pedestal, the scrying orb hovered, glowing faintly with threads of blue light. It pulsed whenever he poured magic into it — his father's magic, his magic — but the image never cleared. Just mist. Always mist.
He slammed both hands on the pedestal. "Come on," he growled. "Show me. Show me, damn it!"
