The air inside the high nave of the Grand Cathedral was so cold that Ren Prime’s breath turned to white frost before it cleared the brass grill of his breathing collar.
The frost didn’t behave like mundane winter ice. It drifted toward the flat stone slabs in tiny, sharp-angled flakes that dissolved into grey ash the instant they touched the stone. The heat had plunged past freezing into a terrifying, unnatural empty pocket where surrounding heat was not streaming away. It was being systematically burned up by the jagged sliver of glass in Heresiarch Lyra’s hand. Every breath Ren drew sent a sharp, painful stab through his chest as the stone salt water inside his collar thickened, crystals scratching his windpipe like ground glass.
Ren Prime stepped across the threshold, his scuffed cobbler’s boots crunching on the frost.
His Carved Mammoth Bone Awl was held low, the silver tip stained with dried crimson blood from the deadlock ward. Behind him, Diplomat Ren walked with measured, unrushed paces. His heavy walking cane struck the stone flags with sharp, hollow thuds that echoed into the soaring black dark rock vaulting above.
“You brought an army to an empty room, Conservator,” Lyra said softly.
