Soren floated down the hallway, his boots barely seeming to touch the floor. He wasn't just walking; he was oscillating on a frequency of pure, unadulterated triumph.
His ice magic, always a mirror to his internal landscape, had abandoned its usual sharp, jagged geometry. Instead, tiny clusters of frost crystallized in the air around his head, swirling into undeniable, shimmering hearts. Pale blue snowflakes formed delicate cardiovascular patterns, bobbing in his wake like loyal, frozen pets.
He was completely unconscious of the display. His mind was a frantic loop of a single scene: the friction of the desk, the heat of her skin, and the glorious, sharp tug on his scalp.
She grabbed my hair, he thought, his heart doing a rhythmic thud against his ribs. She actually pulled me. Called me out like I was some errant squire.
