Ian twisted, a contortion that should have been impossible for a man just impaled.
However, the wounds had longed healed.
Judgement, an extension of him now, caught one rod with a clang that vibrated through the air.
But the other, a streak of dark crimson, struck his shoulder with a sickening crack of force, the impact echoing like a falling tree.
The blow staggered him, forcing a sharp intake of breath.
He didn't fall.
He wouldn't fall.
A low growl, more animal than human, ripped from his throat—and Kaelsythra, like an inferno born of his essence, surged from the wound in his side.
It wasn't a passive bleed; it was an eruption, burning backward in a grey-tinged flare of pure, agonizing energy that caught Fang's extended wrist.
Fang flinched, a minute, almost imperceptible recoil, but he did not cry out.
The scent of seared flesh, sharp and acrid, briefly cut through the other smells of battle.
