The silver script hovered in the air, thrumming with a faint, dreadful resonance.
Aria's eyes darted between the glowing words, her pulse racing. Bone Lance. Soul Shackle. Spectral Hands. Each name carried weight, as if the grimoire itself whispered promises of strength—and warnings of cost.
Laxin squinted at the hovering text. "Alright, but which one makes things explode? I call dibs."
Aria groaned. "This isn't a tavern menu, Laxin. They're spells."
Fenric's gaze was sharp as a blade. "Yes. And spells are more dangerous than any blade. Without precision, they will turn on you."
He flicked his wrist. The letters shifted, showing skeletal diagrams—bones twisting into spears, chains coiling around ghostly figures, translucent hands clawing out of the ground.
"Each spell requires intent, clarity, and force of will. If you falter…" His eyes slid to a pile of bones half-buried in shadow. "…you will join the heap."
Laxin swallowed. "…Noted."
They started with Bone Lance.
