The shadows gathered before anyone moved.
They didn't surge or snap into place. They thickened. Darkness pooled around their feet and spread outward, seeping into the stone like ink. The light didn't vanish all at once—it dimmed just enough for everyone to feel it settle into their bones.
There was no spectacle to it.
Just exhaustion.
Noel stood at the center. His posture was steady, his breathing controlled, but the strain showed in smaller ways: the single flex of his fingers before he stilled them again, the faint delay before the shadows answered his call. Being an Archmage only postponed the cost. It never erased it.
Without a word, the others closed in.
A hand rested against his back. Another on his shoulder. Fingers brushed his arm, his cloak, anchoring themselves to him. There was no formation and no command given. They all understood.
This couldn't be done many times in a row.
