"Let's see how our stolen toys are doing," he murmured, leaning forward slightly, eyes glinting with anticipation.
Inside lay the Syndicate's old alchemist toolset—gleaming silver shears that adjusted size at the barest touch, pipettes that shimmered softly as they dripped faint traces of mana, infuser rings etched with runes humming gently with latent energy, and grinders whispering smoothly as they spun without a single physical nudge. He ran his fingers lightly over their sleek surfaces, feeling the delicate thrum of enchantment vibrating beneath his fingertips.
This wiped-out blacksite may have been the most useful deathtrap we stumbled into.
