Back in the West Wing—an extraordinary scene unfolded, hidden from the chaos stirring elsewhere after the simulation test.
Suspended high above the polished marble floor, Tim hovered on a small, flaming cloud, the flame itself woven from Ezekiel's magic. Tim sat cross-legged, palms resting lightly on his knees, his hair ruffling in the silent, growing pressure of mana around him.
Below, Ezekiel stood firm, feet planted, arms raised slightly forward, his face taut with concentration as he fed a steady stream of magic to sustain Tim's perch and connection.
Opposite Ezekiel, standing with similar rigidity, was Sebastian, arms lifted in a mirror to Ezekiel's stance.
Though unseen to the naked eye, an invisible orb of compressed mana crackled between his fingertips—a barrier so fine and intricate it deflected every ambient thread of magic away from Tim's senses.
