The thought forces a bitter, cold laugh from his lips.

"Of course, just what we need. A mage with limitless magic, not just to rip holes in the sky but even to tear apart time itself."

The year forces Fenris to an abrupt halt in his pacing, staring at Cyril in disbelief.

"9:45? Before I awoke in this forsaken place it was 9:42."

His vision seems to cloud again, and he grips the side of a bed, sitting down heavily.

"Venhedis fasta vass!"