Anti-Mage

The night forest breathed dampness and rot. Anti-Mage stepped silently, his boots leaving no trace on the moss. Branches, like bony fingers, reached for him, but he paid no heed — he was searching for the trace of magic, that sticky chill in the air. The moon hid behind clouds, and the world sank into viscous darkness, where every sound was a threat.

He stopped in a clearing where an old stone circle stood. In its center hung a crimson spark — a weak but living clot of mana. Anti-Mage exhaled, gripping his black-iron amulet. He knew: if he touched the spark, the forest would scream. But he came not to extinguish — he came to listen.

The grasses whispered around him. The ground beneath his feet grew warm, as if alive. He knelt and passed his hand over the spark, feeling it tremble, trying to flee. But Anti-Mage was patient. He waited for the magic to reveal its essence on its own.

— "You’re not the first, nor the last. But I will remember your taste," — he whispered, and the spark died, leaving only the smell of ozone and silence.

The forest exhaled. Anti-Mage rose, dusted his knees, and walked deeper, where the night was thicker and the stars sharper — like shards of shattered reality.