The Color of Unfinished Thoughts (2)

Time passed slowly in Amberine's workshop, as though even the shadows had forgotten their purpose. Amberine didn't notice at first—her focus was locked entirely on the orb in her hands, fingers tracing the runes with practiced, mechanical rhythm. Her mind wandered freely, no longer guiding her hands consciously. Minutes dissolved quietly into hours, marked only by the orb's slow cycles of gentle light.

Her fingertips began to ache subtly, and soon that ache grew into a sharp cramp that forced her back to reality. Amberine paused, frowning down at her hand as she flexed it slowly, feeling the pins-and-needles sensation pulse through her fingertips. The orb hummed softly as if sensing her discomfort, its pulsing rhythm gentle, patient. She shook her hand, stretching her fingers wide before curling them again.