The silence pressed down on me—exhaustion, not calm; the kind that settles in after you've repeated the same ritual to the point of nausea.
Every morning, I sat at the center of the mana chamber, cross-legged, back straight, hands resting on my knees. The runes beneath me pulsed faintly, casting thin gold across the stone. Dawn's light mingled with their glow—warm and cold at once.
I drew a slow breath and let the filaments of mana pour into my body. They slipped beneath my skin like rivers of molten gold. At first, it was almost pleasant—the contained, familiar warmth. Then, inevitably, it reached my right eye. And the workings inside me slipped off their hinges.
The pain returned—keen, cutting—like a blade wedged behind my socket. I could not bear it, and yet I refused to yield.
I forced it. Again, and again.
Mana scraped through my veins; my muscles knotted; my teeth clenched so hard I thought I felt them crack.
