They had the same markers as every other blemish Tristan could see: the little warps of magic they each used to hide their imperfections. The energy that burst from Nico. The waves that dazzled off Callum. Tristan could see magic in use; that much Parisa had already understood. But this—what he saw right before his imminent projection-death—was different. Almost a portal of some kind, a tunnel, as if when he’d closed his eyes the room around him had shifted, rearranged. It lost its definable characteristics, its colors and lines and basic solidity, but Tristan had … done something. Moved
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