Interlude
There is magic in the bones of this world: in the soil and the waves, in the air and the billions of souls that pollute it.
It lives and changes, fades and lingers.
On the campus of Warren University, magic gathered like shadows at dusk, painting everything a color that few know how to see.
The school’s motto was the only hint that most had of the world beneath this world, of the magic that breathes and breathes and breathes…
Exstat. There exists.
In legends and folktales, magic is woven into the fabric of existence.
In occult secret societies and classified CIA programs, magic is a ritual, a hypothesis, a field of study that can make or break empires.
These days, magic is like a mist, slipping through the fingers of anyone who tries to clutch it too tightly.
It is sacrifice. It is accidental. It is in the hands of too many and too few.
It is a dwindling resource in a century of dwindling resources, and you never know where it might find you.
But it will find you.
And magic—the magic of bones, of shadows, of legend—always leaves a stain.