The glow of the water pen in my hand hadn't dimmed. If anything, it seemed to pulse with a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat—alive, almost sentient. I twirled it between my fingers, watching as the faint blue light flickered across its surface, blending with the silver runes that adorned the stone walls of the elven hall. The energy within the pen felt different now, as though it had absorbed something more than just magic. Elven magic, old and ancient, had woven itself into the core of this pen.
I could feel it, like a new kind of awareness—a presence. When I channeled my magic through the pen, it responded with a fluid grace, more aligned, more powerful. It reminded me of the transformation my dark pen had undergone. Once, it had been simple, harnessing the raw energy of necromancy, but over time it had evolved. It had changed into the devil pen, a tool of not just death but manipulation—commanding darker, more primal forces.
