Inside the smoke-hazed back treatment room of the River Lantern, Sir Cael Ardent arched six inches off the oak bench as the flattened gold ring of the Returner Seal blazed white-hot against his collarbone. His jaws locked together with an audible crack of enamel, his eyes rolled back until only the bloodshot whites showed beneath the lids, and a plume of grey, greasy steam hissed up through the neck-slit of his quilted gambeson where the metal was searing straight into the old necrotic scar tissue over his sternum.
Across the ceiling beams, reflected in the sweat on Jon Hale’s brow and the polished brass of Sister Oda’s key-ring, a jagged pulse of crimson system script hammered the air like a tolling alarm bell:
BEARER VESSEL COMPROMISED — MOTOR NERVE PATHWAY SEVERED INITIATING AUTOMATIC ROLLBACK TO PRIMARY ANCHOR DAWN
“He’s not triggering it himself—the machine is trying to stop his heart because his sword hand is crippled!” Jon shouted, lunging across the narrow room to catch Cael’s thrashing left shoulder and pin him flat onto the treatment table before the spasm could snap his spine against the flour barrels. “Elin, cut the leather cord at his neck! Sister Oda, the stone bowl!”
