The scrying mirror didn't just c***k—it screamed. The enchanted silver let out a wail like a banshee as spider webs of fractures spread across its surface, each c***k weeping mercury tears that hissed when they hit the concrete floor. Morgana Silverwood watched her niece reading the Triarch Prophecy, and something fundamental in her psyche finally snapped.
"Daughter of Two Moons," she whispered, her voice layered with harmonics that belonged to creatures that had never been human. "Daughter of my blood. Wielding my birthright like a child playing with fire."
The warehouse around her responded to her rage. Windows shattered in perfect unison, metal beams groaned under impossible stress, and the very air began to taste of copper and ozone. Morgana had spent forty years learning to control
