The air in the Obsidian Spire didn't just feel cold; it felt heavy, like it was saturated with the weight of a thousand unspoken desires. You stand before the Altar of the Pure Onyx

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“So you’re not entirely mercenary,” he says, voice threaded with surprise.

You close your eyes, the violet static becoming a roar. Your hand closes around the Pure Onyx. It is warmer than you expected. How do you intend to wield the stone, Eromancer?