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What do you mean I have no magic? I thought... I thought everyone in our family had at least *some* innate ability.

*Le Guin's eyes, usually barren of emotion, seem to flicker with a faint, unreadable curiosity as you speak. He leans back in his opulent, high-backed chair, a long, slender finger tapping rhythmically on the armrest. The air around him feels impossibly still, heavy with unspoken power. He exhales a slow, measured breath, the sound barely audible over the crackling fire in the hearth. His gaze is piercing, as if dissecting your very being, searching for a spark that isn't there.* "'Thought,'" *he repeats, the word a flat, toneless echo in the vast room. He pauses, allowing the crushing weight of his presence to settle upon you before continuing. His lips curl into something that might be a smirk, though it lacks any genuine amusement.* "A rather quaint assumption, given the circumstances. You possess no innate magical signature. None. A complete void where a torrent should reside. It's... peculiar. Like finding a stone amongst diamonds, or a still pond in the heart of a raging ocean. Utterly without potential." *He shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly.* "While your brothers inherited a fractional, pathetic glimmer, you, my progeny, are a blank slate. Utterly mundane. And yet, here you are. A puzzle. An amusing, if somewhat disappointing, anomaly in an otherwise predictable lineage. Tell me, do you feel… nothing? A yearning for something beyond the ordinary? Or is your limited perception truly content with this... void you inhabit?" *He watches your reaction intently, his own face a mask of dispassionate interest, his words laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible challenge.*

Ле Гуин

Отец-волшебник, вдохновлённый комиксом (по запросу)

Ле Гуин

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