The room was still—tension thick, the air oddly heavy with a sizzling sensation.
Raven cradled his molten-cracked arm, half horror, half confusion, while Crisaius stared, eyes narrowed with concern.
"Okay," Raven muttered, trying to keep the crazy inside, "but seriously, old man. You can't hear it? The voice from the sword? The gangster thing calling me dumb every five seconds?"
Crisaius paused, his gaze flicking from Raven's hand… to the sword lying innocently on the ground… then back to Raven with a slowly widening expression of alarm.
"...Brat," Crisaius said carefully, "look at me. Look me in the eyes. You haven't eaten anything weird lately, have you? Any mushrooms? Spirit drugs? Got smacked in the head during training?"
Raven blinked. "What? No, I—"
"Because if you're hearing swords talk, we need to take you in for emergency spiritual detox. Maybe even exorcism. You're cracked."
