The tremor in the ceiling had barely subsided when Ren Prime’s hands began to move with wild, desperate speed.
He swept a pile of ancient thick parchment cylinders off the nearest stone table. It sent them clattering across the floor. He drew his small iron scraping knife from his apron pocket, flipped the blade backward in his grip. Then he pressed the razor edge directly against the inner skin of his left wrist. Right over the dark violet veins stained with the Synod’s ink-rot.
“Ren! What are you doing?” Mira’s voice cracked like a whip across the vault.
“I need three ounces of dark-blood ink,” Ren muttered. His eyes were wide and feverish, his voice racing in a wild torrent of legalistic panic. “Under the First Canon, a dissolved summon can be re-bound within three hours of un-making if the contract holder offers fresh body consideration. If I score the spirit vein across the ulnar artery and channel blood-ink into the main gold-silver metal fissure of the mirror, I can force a re-stone carving. I can pull Vane back. I can pull Lord Ren back. If I give the mirror ten years of my lifespan—”
CLACK.
The impact was swift, brutal, and precise.
