Malaki let out a low, weary breath, stepping back toward the central courtyard archway. He gestured for us to follow, his long shadow stretching across the polished cobblestones as the late afternoon sun dipped lower toward the horizon.
"If we are to perform a core extraction without tearing the delicate fabric of your soul, Lady Seraphina, we cannot do it out in the open," Malaki said, his voice dropping into the solemn tone of a high battle mage. "The ancient sanctorum beneath the East Wing is insulated with black star-iron. It will suppress any stray surges of dragon mana from rupturing the castle foundations."
Draven didn't loosen his grip on my hand for a single second. His fingers remained tightly intertwined with mine, his calloused palm radiating a deep, pulsing heat that seemed to echo the faint, silver thrum buried beneath my own ribs.
