Frost spread across the floorboards with a dry, popping hiss.
The chill crawled over Kaelen’s boots, turning the pine grain into pale, splintered glass. On the timber floor, Mina curled into a tight ball, her lips turning dark indigo.
“Stand back,” Kaelen said, his voice quiet.
Barnaby Holt scrambled across the rug with a wool blanket, his single arm trembling. “Her breath is turning into ice needles, boy! The Pure Yin backlash is eating her chest! If we don’t force warm Qi into her heart, her pulse will snap!”
“If you shove Yang fire into frozen meridians, you’ll shatter her veins like dry sugar,” Kaelen said.
He reached into the pocket of his hemp robe and pulled out a small celadon vial.
Inside sat seven silver-white spheres. Each one bore faint cloud markings that swirled across the glazed surface without releasing any smoke.
Old Barnaby wants a three-hour shouting match, Kaelen thought. Meanwhile, my tea is getting cold and my sister is turning into an icicle.
