The blue script began to flicker like candle flames drowning in rising water.
Against the oak jamb of the vestry doorway, the charred paper of the #3 Burned Prayer Strip curled under Jon’s palm, its inked surface blackened by the immense discharge. The relic had fulfilled its sovereign purpose. It had shielded an endangered guest from unlawful violence, stood firm against seven furious blows of an attuned royal broadsword, and bought the minutes required for Sister Oda to reach the safety of the river osier beds. It was the third saved trust of the house, held across five erased loops, and now its ward charge was scorched and dormant for the rest of Life 8.
With a soft, sighing rustle that sounded like dry leaves drifting over river stone, the luminous azure lattice dissolved.
The air in the vestry turned cold once more as the damp river draft rushed through the opening.
Jon lowered his arm, his knees buckling beneath him as the somatic drain released its grip on his veins. His palm came away from the door frame, retrieving the brittle, scorched prayer strip and slipping it carefully back into his coat pocket. Its active ward charge was scorched and dormant for the rest of Life 8, while the physical strip and its right-middle-finger ash ring remained intact, preserved to endure across future resets upon his cellar shelf. The pale white scar banding his right middle finger did not disappear; it faded from its brilliant sapphire blaze back to…
