It had been almost ten minutes since Marsel began chanting, sounds Grey had never heard before, words that didn't belong to any language he recognized.
They came out rough, uneven, sometimes low, sometimes sharp, as if Marsel himself was forcing them out.
Before starting, Marsel had told him, almost casually.. that he didn't usually do this. He didn't chant. He didn't need to. Most things bent to his will without effort, without gestures or sound.
A thought, and even a decision was enough.
But this kind of bond mark was different.
And now, because of that, Marsel was doing something he clearly disliked: chanting.
Grey sat still, hands clenched on his thighs, jaw tight.
At first, nothing happened. The room felt the same. His body felt the same. The mark burned faintly, the way it always did, like a pulse he had learned to live with.
Impatience crept in. Then exhaustion. His head throbbed lightly, and he was just about to speak, to say something when his body reacted.
