He’d never seen the stone before, but he recognized the mark. It was written in a language few could speak and fewer still could use. A language that ran through his veins with his blood and pulsed in his black eye. A language he had come to think of simply as Antari. But the language of magic hadn’t always belonged to Antari alone. No, there were stories. Of a time when others could speak directly to magic (even if they couldn’t command it by blood). Of a world so bonded to power that every man, woman, and child became fluent in its tongue. Black London. The language of magic had belonged to
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