When he called the rune out, it sat in his hand, warm to the touch to the point of being uncomfortable. Not a friendly warmth either, more like the heat you feel when you hover your palm too close to a stove and realize a second too late you're being stupid.
It pulsed faintly, like it had its own heartbeat, and the skin of his palm prickled as if the thing was daring him to hold it longer.
He turned it in his fingers, careful, wary. The rune looked inert, just an object, just a carved pentagonal stone, yet it radiated that quiet insistence of danger. The kind of danger that didn't announce itself with screams and claws, but with consequences. He placed it on the table and leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as he tried to think like someone who wasn't currently running on stress, burns, and spite.
