Rober. placed the obsidian slab on the heavy oak table. The stone sat unnaturally against the scarred wood, absorbing the morning light until the room felt dimmer.
His father, John, leaned forward. The Clan Master's face was a map of deep lines, each one carved by years of managing dwindling resources and fragile alliances. He picked up his teacup, thought better of it, and set it down with a sharp click.
"You emptied the account," John said. His voice was flat, not an accusation, but a heavy statement of fact.
"Every point."
"For a rock?"
"Not just a rock. It is a Soul-Gauge Prism. The Mysterious Elder gave to me.
John stared at the black surface. "Magic items that measure potential are rare, son. Stories the major clans tell keeping us small."
