[the light stuns him, but he knows something of what is happening when it resonates with where the crest is buried in him, the circuits that burn in his flesh. the air has the scent of a storm, and Monte Cristo stands tall despite his injuries, gold eyes fixed on the figure before him as though he was trying to pierce him with his gaze.

a master? he was master of much, all aimed towards the proper direction. and that name to him rings some bells - clearly, this is some kind of spirit taking a human form, drawn out by his blood and the remnants of magecraft in this place. would he be its master? he's wrestled more vicious beings into shape so far.]

Am I? You would do better to ask if I would be, come forth to make me an offer.

[for if he refused, it would begone, would it not.]

But, I shall be, you who call yourself Caster. There are worse bargains to strike in this world.