Jack turned to meet them, acknowledging their presence with genuine regard.
"Thank you," Jack said, his voice quiet but carrying a rare sincerity as he looked at her. His back was in ruins. His charred flesh permeated the room. Parts of it were still smoking from the cold fire that had just scarred his soul.
"I know what I just asked you to do was horrific. If your hands had shaken even once, the ink would have torn me apart. Your precision is the only reason I'm still standing, Annabelle. I won't forget it."
Annabelle's eyes were bright, almost glowing with excitement. The artist in her had witnessed something transcendent.
She had stood at the threshold of divine transformation, traced the very patterns that scarred a soul and bound an element.
Her hands still tingled with the memory of holding the pen, feeling the dark mana pulse through the ink as it burned itself into Jack's flesh.
