The sky above the plaza was cracked with veins of light.
The distortion had not yet closed; instead, it pulsed like a half-healed wound in reality.
The remains of the café flickered, tables overturned, cups shattered, and the faint smell of burnt sugar mixing with ozone.
Darcyroix stood at the far edge of the devastation, his hands behind his back, his coat gently swaying in the distorted breeze.
His gaze wasn't the gaze of a teacher anymore, it was the look of a man who had seen too many things he wasn't supposed to.
Lyrium was standing in the center, blade humming, breathing hard but unbroken.
The entity twitched, a shape of mist and lightning, whispering in frequencies no human ear could properly register.
Darcyroix's voice broke the silence, calm and precise, yet it carried a tremor of something deeper, curiosity, perhaps even awe.