Serelith's staff glimmered in her hand, the green shoots circling it now blooming tiny violet petals that matched the candle-flames. Her long purple hair shifted with the motion, a silken veil rippling past soft shoulders. When she spoke, her voice carried the hush of midnight gardens.
"Begin, darling."
Mikhailis planted both feet, inhaled deeply, and felt the polished floor grow cool beneath his soles. He pictured the heart-tree of Silvarion: ancient trunk luminous with emerald light, roots drinking star-water. A thread of that colour answered his call, rising through his chest, tingling behind his sternum. He raised a hand, willing the energy to pool in his palm.
A spark blossomed—bright green, leaf-shaped, hopeful. Before he could form the sapling, cold pressure surged along his wrist. The Mist Mark stirred like a snake awakened. Silver fog flooded the spark, hissing as it devoured colour.
Snap!
