Draven's hand shot out and pressed flat to her wrist, palm absorbing the residual static. "Ground it," he ordered, voice low, and twisted his grip so their joined skin made a conduit to the metal flooring. A thread of lightning bled from her to him, then to earth, dissipating in a soft hiss.
He followed immediately with an incant: "Eva'rel lun thar." The syllables of Old Sylvan were as clean as razor cuts, delivered with perfect cadence. A stillness slid through the crackling air as though the language itself were a key twisting in a lock. The stormlight around Sylvanna's hand collapsed inward, sparking once before it winked out.
She inhaled like a diver breaking surface after too long underwater. Her lashes fluttered; clarity returned, tempered by something older than memory. She pushed a stray braid behind her ear, the charm at its tip glowing faint and hot against her neck.
