The blue ward did not shatter under Cael’s assault, but it rang like a hammered anvil, vibrating with a high, crystalline shriek that made Jon’s teeth ache in his skull.
Cael struck the glowing barrier with savage, relentless fury. He had discarded all chivalric form, all knightly grace, all the disciplined training of the royal academy in the capital; he swung his heavy broadsword like an enraged ditcher using a mattock to break stubborn river shale in a frozen culvert. The blade hammered against the geometric lines of blue script—once, twice, three times—each blow exploding in a blinding flare of turquoise sparks that hissed as they struck the lime-dusted floorboards.
“Break!” Cael screamed, his voice shredded to a hoarse croak, spit and soot spraying from his lips. “Break, you peasant curse! Yield to the Crown’s steel!”
With every strike of the broadsword, a violent, freezing jolt surged through Jon’s right arm.
He stood with his palm pressed flat against the charred paper of the #3 Burned Prayer Strip on the oak jamb, his boots locked firmly against the floorboards. The ward was not fueled by magic; it was fueled by the somatic vitality of the Keeper who anchored it. With each concussive impact against the barrier, Jon felt the cold drain dragging at the marrow of his bones. His vision blurred at the edges, his knees trembled under the mounting pressure, and the white ring banding his right middle finger burned with an icy cold that felt like liquid frost…
