Liquid violet thunder hissed against the basalt terrace as Barnaby Holt and Linnea hauled the forged spear from the depths of the pool.
Two heavy crane chains groaned under the strain, hoisting six hundred pounds of red-hot star-iron into the cool sea breeze.
The weapon did not look like the battered polearm Sera Thorne had carried out of the southern marches.
Its shattered steel collar was gone, replaced by dense layers of celestial thunder-iron that pulsed with a steady, rhythmic heartbeat.
Along the eight-foot shaft, thirty-six silver Saint-thunder runes spiraled from the butt-spike to the barbed leaf-blade.
Each rune crackled with contained, volatile lightning capable of channeling fifty thousand times baseline force.
“Look at that temper,” Barnaby barked, wiping grease from his forehead with his cloth sleeve. “Not a single cold-shut in the core. The metal drank the lightning like sweet wine.”
Linnea stepped forward with a pair of brass calipers, her leather spectacles reflecting the blinding violet glow.
