Elowen’s POV
The air shifted, a subtle, insidious ripple that wasn’t of the wind or the night. One moment, I was sparring with Ranon, my violet-blue witchflame dancing around my fists, the satisfying ache of exertion a familiar comfort. The next, a cold, foreign tendril of magic snaked into my core, coiling around my newfound power. My knees buckled, the strength draining from my limbs as if the earth itself had betrayed me.
Ranon, ever vigilant, caught me instantly, his powerful arms tightening around my waist, pulling me against his warm, solid form. “El? What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice was a guttural rumble of concern, his golden eyes searching my face, already sensing the unseen threat.
My skin prickled, a thousand tiny needles piercing my aura. My magic, usually a vibrant, eager presence, recoiled, pulling in on itself, a frightened beast retreating into the depths of my soul. I could feel it in my blood, in the ancient, burning runes etched into my arms – a searing disco
