The mirrors were dead.
That silver surface that had held Elena's face — her daughter's wide, tear-streaked eyes watching her mother get pounded on the floor like a breeding animal — flickered twice and went completely dark. The mana tether snapped clean, starved out, the magic losing its grip the way a fist loses grip when it has been holding something too heavy for too long.
Viktor felt the disconnection like a small weight lifting from the back of his skull.
'Good.'
He had already given Elena enough to carry. Whatever she was doing right now — sitting on that cold academy floor, Sofia's arms locked around her, the image of her mother's face burned behind her eyelids — that was her problem to live with. He had planted the seed. He did not need to watch it grow tonight.
Now the room belonged to him alone. Fully. No performance. No audience.
Just appetite.
The mansion floor was wrecked.
