Dawn crept in, evident by the faint yet distinct light rays sipping through the roof.

  On the table, Eylin was the image of pure focus, despite his baggy eyes from the all-nighter he'd pulled.

  New scribbled notes were sprawled all over the table—some with calculations, some with diagrams, and finally those with drawings of the core glyphs, from LUX to FRIZ.

  Eylin's gaze was locked on the final conclusions from his night:

  Bone → should hold for 12 minutesStone → should hold for 7 minutesMetal → should hold for 5 minutesPaper parchment → should hold for less than metal

  Apart from the conclusions was Mercy's late-night message that creeped the hell out of him. Her words weren't casual, weren't guiding—they were a warning. Faintly glowing on the edge of his desk, the glyph-bound note flickered like it was breathing:

  "Eylin… be careful. Every attempt leaves a scar. Even if you think no one is watching."

  He swallowed. The hum of residual mana from the bone in his pocket felt sharper, almost like it was echoing her warning. His pulse quickened, but his hands didn't stop. Scribbles became diagrams again, diagrams became calculations, and calculations became tiny experiments—each one leaving its trace, each one bending a little piece of the world to his will.

  He started small.

  First, a bone shard, inscribed with a modified LUX glyph. He whispered the activation formula under his breath, letting the mana flow sluggishly at first. The glyph shimmered, pulsing with obedient light, and held. Twelve minutes. Exactly as his calculations predicted.

  Next came stone. A smooth river rock from the alley, glyph etched carefully with his trembling fingers. He infused it with the same controlled flow. The glyph sparkled, then wavered slightly—seven minutes before dissolving.

  Metal was trickier. His penknife blade took the glyph reluctantly. It flickered like a stubborn candle, heat and strain radiating through his arm. Five minutes exactly, and his wrist throbbed as if the metal had siphoned part of his essence.

  Paper was the cruelest. Every parchment attempt bent under the glyph's power almost instantly. Lines curled, mana tore through fibers, and his head throbbed from the effort. Less than five minutes, and he staggered back, clutching his skull.

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  Pain was spreading now—light, then sharper. A dull ache behind the eyes. A tingle running down his arms. Tiny flashes of memory—scenes he couldn't place—slipped into his mind, like someone else's daydreams brushing against his own. His fingers tingled, sticky with residual mana. Every success left a mark, invisible but unmistakable.

  Still, he logged everything. Notes, diagrams, time measurements, mental strain. He began sketching failures alongside successes, marking anomalies in red. Every warped glyph, every distorted pulse, every trace of bleed-off was cataloged.

  Finally, he returned to the bone in his pocket. Clenching it, he let his full mana flow through it. The glyph appeared brighter, more stable, but his body rebelled. A wave of dizziness, a ringing in his ears, and a taste of copper in his mouth. His vision doubled. The candle flame trembled, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. He exhaled, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt.

  He leaned back, trembling, eyes scanning the papers he had filled. Each experiment had cost him a fraction of himself—memory snippets, sensory distortions, tingling fatigue—but each had also taught him something crucial: to make the glyphs hold, he had to surrender a piece of control.

  "Every success leaves a mark… guess it's time to see how deep this goes," he muttered, twirling his pen again, jotting notes furiously.

  He paused only to glance at Mercy's warning. The words burned in his mind. He wasn't just experimenting—he was leaving traces that would echo in the world long after he moved on. And yet, for the first time, he felt the thrill of mastery creeping through the exhaustion.

  Bones, stone, metal, paper—each material had a limit, each limit demanded a toll, and each toll carved him a little deeper into the truth: his anomaly could work, but only at a cost. His body, his mind, his memories—they were all collateral. And the world outside his room, the Spires, the mages, the white-robed authorities—they would notice eventually.

  Eylin rubbed his temples, trying to quell the ache in his skull. Then, with a grin that was half madness, half triumph, he whispered to the empty room:

  "Let's see how much I'm willing to bleed to make it work."