The sound of the silver fork striking lead was not a dull clatter. It was a pure, high, razor-thin hum that cut through the drafty air of the Granite Hall like a diamond blade through window glass.
TIIIIIIIIING.
The sound wave propagated in an expanding sphere from the impact point, washing across the inside of the cage.
Inside the lead bars, Mira’s right shoulder stiffened. The many-sided smoky quartz crystals running from her collarbone down to her fingertips responded to the hum with immediate, sympathetic shaking. A sharp, violent hum rose from her chest. A deep ring so piercing that the crystal chandelier hanging fifty feet overhead began to chime in ringing all at once. Its glass pendants shivered against their brass pins.
A gasp of genuine terror rippled through the sixty Templars encircling the well. Several men raised their shields, ducking their helmets, while Advocate Rostov scrambled backward three paces. His face was pale with sudden, wild regret.
Ren Vale surged against the defense dock rail, the iron cuffs biting so deeply into his wrists that fresh blood welled beneath his linen bandages.
“Mira!” Ren shouted.
Mira didn’t scream.
