The banquet halls of the highborn once glittered with chandeliers of crystal and cups of molten gold. Now, their beauty became cages. Mana surged through marble walls, shaking paintings from their hooks, shattering windows into rivers of glass.
Nobles clutched at their throats, gasping as if the very air rebelled against their lungs. Healers rushed from chamber to chamber, but their spells collapsed mid-incantation, unraveling into sparks. The most arrogant of dukes, once claiming mastery over mana itself, vomited blood on his silks as his veins burned.
"This is beneath us!" one Count screamed before collapsing face-first into his feast.
But pride could not save them. The great were dragged low, gasping on polished floors, their jewelry clinking like chains of the condemned.
And in the shadows of their manors, whispers spread: The Black Eye watches. The Black Eye opens.