Scrying Stones

The old wizard sat in the stillness of his tower, the air heavy with the smell of burning candles and the sound of an ancient brass clock ticking gently in the corner. On the desk before him seven prismatic scrying stones set in a circle, each one catching the flickering lights of the candles and casting soft rainbows across his face. His long grey beard trailed across the cluttered desk, brushing over scrolls and forgotten tomes. He leaned forward, fingertips hovering just above the circle. At his touch, the stones stirred, a light from within them illuminated, pulsing like slow, steady heartbeats. The tower’s clutter—scrolls, quills, forgotten trinkets—seemed to fade into shadow as his mind drifted through the visions they offered.

One stone showed a river glinting beneath a crescent moon. Another, a child laughing at the edge of a village square. A third revealed only a field of stars, endless and still…. The wizard breathed deeply, letting the scenes wash over him, not grasping for answers, but listening to the rhythm beneath them all. His white cat, purred quietly atop his discarded hat, her eyes half-closed but fixed on the stones as if she too understood their language. For a moment, the wizard felt no burden of prophecy, no weight of chaos—only the calm of being present, a watcher of threads weaving endlessly into one another.