The final words of the counterspell rolled from Seraphielle's tongue with the quiet certainty of someone who had uttered far older incantations than this one.
Her voice neither rose nor faltered. It carried through the stillness of the night in measured cadence, each ancient syllable sinking into the invisible barrier stretched over Valkoron like drops of ink disappearing into deep water.
Beside her, Mira matched every word without hesitation.
Though younger and far less experienced, the disciple had learned long ago that a ritual was not won by volume but by precision. One misplaced breath, one broken rhythm, and magic possessed a habit of turning upon its wielder.
The two women stood with their palms extended toward what seemed, to ordinary eyes, like empty air.
Only those born with magic coursing through their veins could truly behold it.
