Ashwing slept coiled on a branch behind him, tail twitching, murmuring in dreams. The dragon's presence was a comfort, but even his warmth couldn't quiet what stirred within.
The mana inside Lindarion flowed too strongly now, faster, heavier, threading through every channel like molten light.
He closed his eyes.
[Core Stability: 94%. Mana Output: 320%. Fluctuation Detected.]
His jaw tightened. The system's voice, calm, analytical, had become a reminder that he was more than elven now, more than blood or bone. He was a vessel for something older, something that spoke in silence.
'Control,' he whispered inwardly, steadying his breathing. 'It's just power. Power bends to will.'
But it wasn't bending. Not fully. The Breath was alive, its rhythm not his own. He reached deeper, searching for the stillness at the center of his core. Instead he found heat, flickering, layered, like a forge fed by too many bellows. It pulsed with slow, deliberate defiance.
