Sir Cael Ardent’s left hand shook so violently as it hovered above his breastbone that the two nerve-dead fingers—the ring and little finger scarred in the bridge chapel fire—dragged uselessly across the scorched cartilage like dry twigs. The orange glow of the Returner Seal pulsed faster against his sternum, the ancient imperial metal fighting to hold its seat in the bone as if the machine deep beneath the Old Hill sensed its bearer’s wavering will.
“His fingers cannot get a purchase on the rim, Jon,” Elin said sharply, holding a folded square of boiled linen ready in her right hand while her left steadied Cael’s unburned shoulder against the pine trestle. “The gold has welded itself into the periosteum during the backdraft. If he slips and tears the intercostal vein, he will bleed into his chest cavity before I can pack the hollow.”
“Do not touch the gold with your forceps, Elin,” Sister Oda warned from the opposite rail, her gaunt fingers pressed flat against the cold-iron chalk line on the table edge. “If any hand other than the bearer’s pries that ring loose while the link is hot, the Hearth Nail will read a forced breach. He must lift it himself, or he must ask the Keeper to guide his wrist.”
