The Magic Symposium (4)

Amberine forced a smile, focusing back on Elara and Maris—though "focusing" felt generous when every heartbeat thudded like a mallet against drum-skin. Voices drifted around the chamber in soft eddies: a foreign dialect rich with rolled consonants, the crack of a spell crystal being slotted into a projector frame, the dry rustle of parchment as someone rehearsed lines for the fiftieth time. Elara and Maris were still hashing out order of slides—Elara's voice crisp, Maris's an easy counterpoint—but for a moment the words dissolved into background murmur, as though the world had been dunked beneath water.