The tension between us was palpable, a silent war waged through mana alone. The very air crackled where our power met, neither willing to concede ground, neither willing to make the first move. The chamber's dim, flickering light cast long shadows that stretched unnaturally, distorted by the arcane forces pressing against them. The magic in this place, woven into its very foundations, recognized what was happening. It vibrated like a living thing, uncertain whether to flee or bear witness.
Kyrion, or rather, the man who had masqueraded as Asterion, stood opposite me, his youthful face eerily composed. His silver hair, once streaked with age, now flowed in gleaming waves, his once-worn features smoothed by whatever necromantic process had restored him. But his eyes—his eyes held the weight of centuries, a knowing gleam untouched by his apparent rebirth. He wasn't pretending. He was someone who had seen death in every form, who had wielded it and survived its grasp.
