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

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.

Bewildered, as though time itself had slipped into another rhythm, Tavik looked down at his hands, watching light flicker and snap between his fingers, erratic yet vivid.

Above them, a remarkable shaft of golden light pierced the firmament, carving a radiant pillar that signalled the emergence of power and the ascent of magic to realms yet explored.

Tavik looked up, instantly alert, and caught the wild urgency in Bran’s eyes. In that moment, he sensed a shift in the air, the unmistakable feeling that something was about to unravel, setting their reunion with Oren and Nix on an uncertain path.