Perched on the rooftop, Lor gazed toward the capital, its spires and palace barely visible in the distance, their outlines softened by the night's haze.
The mana's source wasn't at the palace itself but somewhere close—perhaps the noble quarter, the arcane district, or the shadowed alleys near the royal crest's stronghold.
The air thrummed with it, a dense, oppressive wave that made his skin tingle, his instincts screaming that something big was brewing.
A spell? A breach?
He wondered, his hazel eyes narrowing, his black hair whipping in the faint breeze.
Things like this happened sometimes—rogue mages, forbidden rituals, or noble experiments gone wrong—but this felt different, heavier, familiar?
He should've ignored it.
He had no business chasing mana surges in the dead of night, especially after the day he'd had.
Myra, Viora, Nellie's date offer, Ameth's ritual—it was enough to keep anyone grounded.
