The ritual chamber was bathed in a dull, pulsing light, the shadows on the walls twisting unnaturally as Valtor completed the incantation. He felt the blood drain from his face as the magic surged through him, pulling at his very essence, demanding more than he had anticipated. He had delved into forbidden magic before, but never at such a cost.
The blood-red crystal on the altar now pulsed with an ominous glow, its energy draining him as he attempted to scry for the tome. His skin crawled as if a thousand needles pricked at him, and his body trembled with the exertion. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose, but he didn't dare stop. The cost of failure—the wrath of Ravenor—would be far worse than any pain this ritual could inflict.
