The underground chamber became his prison, his crucible. Days bled together in the stagnant air, the dim flicker of torches marking time more than any sun or sky.
The walls bore the scars of his impatience, blackened gouges from flame, fractures from lightning, scorched stone where divine light had seared. But now, fire and lightning were forbidden.
Nysha's voice made certain of that.
"Again," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.
Sweat clung to Lindarion's skin as he stood in the chamber's center, Zerathis in hand. The blade purred faintly, almost mocking his exhaustion. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, every muscle taut with both effort and fury.
"I don't repeat myself," he growled.
"Then you'll never learn."
