The distance between us was closing nearly instantly, but to my dilated perception, the world had slowed to a crawl. The raindrops suspended in the air were no longer water; they were static obstacles, frozen in time.
I was no longer holding a sword. I was gripping a dying star.
Valeria was screaming.
It wasn't a metaphor, nor was it the sound of wind shearing against the edge. The physical steel of the blade was vibrating at a frequency so high it produced a shrill, piercing shriek that drowned out the thunder of the storm. The high-grade mithril alloy, forged by the greatest smiths of the Northern Continent and bathed in the mana of a Sovereign, was disintegrating at the molecular level.
I was pouring the Tenth Circle—the direct manipulation of reality's source code—into a vessel meant for swinging at armor. I was forcing the concept of "Nothing" into an object made of "Something."
