The Seventh Portal didn’t simply open. It yielded like an iron tomb surrendering its dead.
The three-foot-thick iron-hard metal slabs swung back into their wall recesses. Then, the air in the circular entry hall was sucked wildly into the inside of the vault. A gust of freezing, bone-dry air rushed past Ren Prime’s face. He carried the scent of ancient sandalwood, crushed bitter pine-resin, dried draconic musk. The faint, clear spark ozone of four hundred years of packed legal power.
Ren Prime couldn’t stand.
He lay on his side on the cold black glass floor, his breath coming in ragged, shallow wheezes. The body backlash from Scribe Ren’s forged uncial was ripping through his blood-flow system like liquid glass. Every vein in his forearms and throat was swollen into a hard, violet ridge. He clutched his chest with both hands, his fingers digging into his damp wool doublet. He felt his heart hammer with a chaotic, stumbling rhythm.
Brother Ren dropped to his knees beside him, uncapping a small horn flask of cold spring water infused with crushed valerian and ground pearl.
“Breathe, Ren Prime,” Brother Ren whispered, his voice calm, steady, and filled with monastic stillness. He supported the back of Ren Prime’s neck with one gentle hand while bringing the flask to his lips. “Let the water cool your tongue. The stroke is finished. The word has bonded with the metal. Don’t fight the current in your blood. Surrender the pushback.”
