The flame of the orange candle, representing the focal point of the prayer, flickered as though stirred by an unseen breeze. Apart from that, it remained unaffected, maintaining its ordinary hue without any hint of transformation.
Lumian sensed an unusual pulsation deep within his soul, as if a distant cry had reached his ethereal essence.
Temporarily unable to respond, he continued to recite the incantation.
"I implore you,
"I beseech to be bestowed the Prophetic Concoction…"
In this ritualistic spell, words like "help create" couldn't be used. It had to be "bestowed" or "gifted."
Lumian's spirit trembled with each uttered word, like ripples extending outward, leaving him with an unsettling sensation of both elevation and dizziness.
