The silence of the Dead Zone was absolute. It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was the absence of the hum. Every living thing with a spark of mana has a resonance, a frequency that connects it to the world. Inside the radius of the obsidian spikes, that connection was severed. I felt like a machine with its power coupling ripped out—stalled, cold, and dangerously light.
Dr. Vane didn't have that problem. His movements weren't magical; they were chemical. The alchemical stimulants coursing through his veins didn't care about dampening fields. He moved with a twitchy, predatory grace, the anti-magic glass scalpel held in a professional grip.
"You look diminished, Mr. Valcrey," Vane said. He stepped over the stone where I lay. "Summoners are so fragile when you take away their toys. You're nothing but a boy in a dirty coat."
