LYRE
Thom stares at me in both confusion and blind devotion, already shifting from scared little quail to absolute certainty I'll be able to fix everything in a moment.
It's almost embarrassing. Especially after how little I've been able to do in the past few days.
Power hums under my skin, but its resonance is tainted by the contaminated aura of Isabeau's underground prison.
"Fucking sanguimancers," I mutter. Owen's never going to get this place purified under his own power. Even with his angelic ancestry, this level of corruption would take forever to scrub clean. Isabeau's created a monstrosity spanning miles.
Manipulating the flow of arcana in this space is as easy as breathing for me under normal circumstances. With my power halved, it requires a little more concentration.
I send up a half-prayer, though it's really more of a sardonic comment than anything: I'm not interfering too much… The wards were already here. So don't make the punishment too severe this time, okay?
