Kael stood at the entrance of the rune craft, taking in the rows of workbenches, the shelves of blank stone slabs, the cabinets of inscription tools, and the single ancient figure hunched over a desk at the far end of the room. Dim light filtered through narrow windows. Mana crystals embedded in the ceiling provided the rest—soft, steady, impossible to accidentally disrupt with wayward energy.
Perfect for precision work.
Master Finnick looked up as Kael approached. He was ancient—skin like crumpled parchment, white hair wispy and thin, eyes buried behind wrinkles so deep they looked like scars. A pair of reading spectacles sat on his nose, magnifying his already sharp gaze to uncomfortable proportions.
"You're the Vorn boy," Finnick said. Not a question.
"Yes, Master."
