A Lesson in Power

The Shadow Court was built on magic and reminiscence. Every torch, every floor tile pulsed with ancestral power. Elara stood in awe, her heels clicking on black stone as they approached a central dais. Aldric stopped beside a protracted obsidian desk in which a ceremonial dagger lay.

"Magic here isn't channeled through wands or rituals," he stated. "It responds to blood, intention, and truth."

He picked up the blade. "Show me your dedication."

She flinched but extended her palm.

The reduce become shallow, however the blood that dripped sizzled as it hit the obsidian. Her pulse quickened—no longer from pain, however recognition. Something inner her responded, unfurling like wings.

"Good," he murmured. "Now, say your call. Your full call."

"Elara Marie Monroe."

The ground rippled. The torches flared violet.

"Again."

She repeated it, voice louder.

A rush of heat surged into her frame. The mark—the glyph—burned itself into the skin over her coronary heart, sparkling in short earlier than fading. Elara gasped. Her senses spiked. She could pay attention whispers from miles away.

She dropped to her knees, beaten. Aldric knelt beside her.

"You're connected now," he stated softly. "To me. To the Court. And to power that most mortals by no means stay long enough to taste."

She shivered. "What happens subsequent?"

"You discover ways to continue to exist it."