You know when the sky opens, the first thing you feel is not fear, but coldness.
It's not as cold as if you forget to wear long johns when you go out in winter. It's the kind of thing where you're obviously standing in the rental house you've lived in for six years, with the windows closed and the radiator still warm, but suddenly you feel a biting coldness on the back of your neck - it's not the wind, it's something looking at you. You know you're being watched, but when you look back you realize it's the sky itself that's staring at you.
The sky cracked. It was emerald green, like someone poured a bucket of luminous paint on the ceiling, and then the paint burned a hole in the ceiling on its own. A blue light is still emanating from the edge of the hole—you know that blue light. You have been playing pure ice magic for six years, and you have made enough ice arrows to go around Stormwind City for one and a half times. That's arcane energy. It's not a special effect in the game, it's real. The dust in the air is sucked by these blue lights and hangs in mid-air, like someone spreading a handful of glowing dandruff in front of your eyes.
Your fingers start to glow.
It's not the light of a mobile phone screen. It's something in your body that finally wakes up. It flows in your blood vessels, rushing through the meridians you have never felt before, rushing from your heart to your elbows and then to your fingertips - and then an ice crystal the size of a coin condenses on your fingertips. No incantation was said. There is no knotted mudra. You did nothing, your hands knew it. Your hand remembers the pattern of the skill flying out from the tip of the staff every time you pressed the shortcut key for Ice Strike in the past six years. Those lines are off the screen now. In your bones.
Someone was screaming downstairs. It's not a long drawn-out scream like in the movies. It's very short - like a person just about to scream
