The smell of bitter gum arabic, scorched copperas, and dead ink stayed heavily in the freezing draft of the Inner Sanctum. It mixed with the sudden, sharp ozone of a static storm. Ren Prime remained on his knees amidst the fragments of Scribe Ren’s shattered silver quill and the pale, powdery dust of Master Ren’s split stone slate. His throat felt as though it had been coated with skin-burning lime. Every try to swallow sent screaming fire through his throat cords. The brutal body enforcement of the Zero True Names exclusion penalty that now silenced any sacred or vocalized magic. Beneath his lambskin apron, his left arm throbbed with ugly, snake-like ridges where the ink-rot poisoned his tiny blood vessels. That turned his veins into burning wires of dark violet bile.
He reached into his leather satchel with trembling, ink-stained fingers. He pulled out a pinch of prepared potion-made willow-ash and forced it under his tongue. The bitter, powdery carbon burned against his gums. But it was the only sustenance his ruined stomach could digest without triggering violent vomiting. Beside him on the dais, Mira stood firm, her mortal left hand resting upon his shoulder. Meanwhile, her right arm—flawless, many-sided smoky quartz from collarbone to fingertip—pulsed with an unbroken, pure silver ringing chime. The violet light streaming from her crystal-clear marrow washed over his burning neck, dampening the body agony just enough to keep his vision from dissolving into grey static.
