The water in the stone trough hissed in a steady, rhythmic cadence as Kaelen reached down through the thinning steam.
His fingers closed around the purple dragon-ash timber. The wood was warm, humming with a quiet, restrained vibration that tingled against his palms like living pulse-beats.
He lifted Storm-Pike smoothly out of the water.
Quench water rolled off the polished silver blade in clear, sparkling beads, evaporating into thin air before hitting the stone floor. Arcs of pale blue lightning flickered across the three-foot spearhead, casting bright azure reflections against the dark soot on the vaulted ceiling.
Kaelen turned around and walked toward the basalt anvil.
Sera Thorne stood motionless, her gray eyes wide as she stared at the weapon. Her scarred hands twitched at her sides, but she seemed afraid to reach out, as if touching the spear might shatter the dream into dust.
“Take it,” Kaelen said, extending the weapon horizontally across both hands. “It’s balanced for your reach. Eleven feet from butt to tip. The dragon-ash absorbs ninety percent of the recoil, so your wrist will never pinch.”
Sera took a trembling step forward.
