A whistling silver spear point split the darkness of the lower dock warehouse, shearing through a stack of hemp crates.
Dry grain spilled across the damp cedar planks.
Deacon Vane scrambled backward on his hands and knees, shrieking like a scalded hog. “Assassins! Guild enforcers on the wharf!”
Sera Thorne stepped in front of the trembling deacon, her boots digging into the floorboards.
Her Iron Bone Peak aura surged outward in a dense gray wave. She gripped Storm-Pike with both hands, meeting the attacking spear in a violent clash of sparks.
CLANG.
The impact vibrated through Sera’s forearms. She was thrown back three paces, her heels leaving deep grooves in the timber.
“Not bad for an indentured caravan guard,” a cold, raspy voice echoed through the doorway.
