The ancient language. The lost script. The notation system that predated modern magical theory by three thousand years. I'd absorbed it — from one of my aunts, the Catorian sister who had spent forty years studying ancient texts — and multiplied it through the breeding rebate. The knowledge was vast. Deep. The kind of thing that made scholars weep.
My finger moved. The lines appeared — glowing on the wood, the inscription carving itself into the surface. Circle. Geometric patterns. Interlocking triangles. The notation was complex — each line precise, each angle calculated, each symbol carrying meaning that would take a scholar years to decipher.
The ground shimmered. The magic circle — large, covering most of the room's floor — materialized. The glow was soft. Warm. The light pulsed — rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat.
I stood. Looked at my work. The circle was perfect.
I lifted my head. My eyes found the doorway.
