"You don't get to say my name."
The thief's mouth opened. No sound came out. A rasp of breath, maybe. A stammer. He tried again, like the shape of Lindarion's face would offer mercy if he recognized it fast enough.
It didn't.
Lindarion crouched down, coat shifting slightly at the edges as he moved. His hand extended to the cobblestones beside the man's shoulder, palm hovering just above the dirt-caked surface.
Heat radiated from his skin. Not fire. Not visible. Just pressure.
The stone began to hiss where his magic reached through it. A slow, subtle burn curled upward in waves of distortion. Steam rolled around his knuckles, and the damp in the cracks began to dry out.
"I warned you once," Lindarion said, voice low.
"I—I didn't know what it was." The thief flinched backward until his spine hit the alley wall. "It wasn't me, I swear—I just grabbed it, I didn't read—"
"You took it from a sealed chamber. From a vault marked with three high-script warnings."
