Oren released his magic and stepped back, breath unsteady. He looked from Bran to Nix to Tavik, then down at his own hands, still glowing faintly, still tingling with the remnants of something ancient and vast, and found he had no words yet for what had passed through them.

The arcing lightning flared again, wilder this time, leaping between Tavik’s hands in bright, jagged bursts.

At the centre stood a round structure with a carved totem beside its door.

Two ways curved into separate darknesses, each one swallowing what little moonlight reached the junction floor within a matter of feet.

In his upturned palms, resting on his knees, sat small spheres of blue lightning, crackling softly, turning on themselves, perfectly still and perfectly contained

Tavik remained seated, his forearms draped across his knees, gaze fixed unwaveringly upon the mandala grass between them.

It was a tranquil, unwavering amber-orange, evocative of late August, just before sunset, yet it possessed an odd permanence, refusing to shift or fade