He crossed one arm loosely over his chest. Let his other hand rest near his side.
"You get that from the spell weight, or the part where none of them scratched you?"
Varik stepped down from the circle's center. Boots steady, coat trailing slightly behind.
"I've seen what Tier Sevens throw when they're at the edge of burnout," he said. "You're still holding back."
Lucen raised an eyebrow. "That was all of them."
"The spells, sure," Varik said. "But not you."
The words landed quietly. Not dramatic. Just surgical.
Lucen didn't respond.
Didn't deny it either.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The spells were everything in the archive. But the archive was the surface.
The real danger wasn't the firebolt or the vector.
It was the way Lucen could already feel the next spell forming, no chalk, no cast, just instinct. A shape in the back of his mind. Ready to be drawn. The system wasn't telling him to stop. It was waiting to be surprised.
