Soren left his private study with the weight of centuries pressing against his temples. The research... the charts of his own impossible mana, the cryptic notes on Aenithra's disappearance... had provided no answers, only a hunger for them. He moved through the palace with a predatory focus, his boots striking the stone in a rhythm that brooked no interruption.
He followed the same path Bianca had taken only moments before, descending into the bowels of the mountain. With every flight of stairs, the air grew more stagnant, the temperature dipping as his own subconscious magic responded to his agitation. He needed to look into the eyes of the woman who had spent a lifetime studying him.
Halfway down the final spiral of the servant's stairs, Soren stopped. He didn't just feel the cold; he felt a ripple in the ambient mana of the corridor. The air felt thin, disturbed, as if someone had recently woven a spell and failed to properly tuck the loose ends of the energy away.
