Trial by Fire and Magic

The air crackled, not with the usual ozone tang of residual magic, but with a thicker, more menacing energy. Ian felt it prickle his skin, a phantom whisper of unseen forces at play. He gripped the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight a small comfort against the gnawing unease that had settled in his gut since Ragnor’s veiled threats. Beside him, Lisa’s hand, usually warm and steady, was clenched into a tight fist, her knuckles white. Her gaze, usually so direct and piercing, flickered towards the dense canopy of the Whispering Woods, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"He's close," she murmured, her voice barely a breath. "I can feel his signature. It's… twisted. Like a poisoned well."

Ian nodded, his eyes scanning the shadowed undergrowth. "Twisted is Ragnor's specialty. What did his message say again? Something about a 'demonstration' of true power?"