The distortion sharpened as Merlin approached, not into a shape but into a contradiction. Mana bent inward without collapsing, like a thought refusing to finish itself. It reminded him uncomfortably of unfinished spells—of ideas abandoned halfway through execution because reality rejected them.
He stopped a few steps short of it.
The construct's voice did not interrupt. That, more than anything else, told him this part was his to handle.
Merlin lowered his guard just enough to let his perception widen. He did not push mana outward; instead, he loosened the internal restraints that kept his affinities neatly layered and distinct. Lightning hummed beneath his skin, restrained but alert. Wind thinned the air around him, sharpening edges. Water cooled his core, steadying the surge before it could become excess.
Still, the distortion did not react.
It wasn't responding to power.
It was responding to presence.
