The Hallowed Voice had seen many things in his long years walking the Lands of Stone, but he had not seen anything like this fucking monster of a being.
Damian Vakochev. The son of Zuku Vakochev.
He sat across the Sacred Hall of Truth watching the young man work through the first stack of grimoires with the focused intensity of someone who had decided the texts were going to give up their secrets whether they wanted to or not, and he took a quiet moment to observe him the way he observed all things that concerned him, which was to say thoroughly and without the filter of politeness.
Nearly three times the size of a normal man. Dense Mana curling over his body in slow continuous waves that had nothing to do with intentional projection and everything to do with what his existence simply was at rest, the way a furnace radiated heat without being asked to.
