A small, fractured chime pierced the chaos and roar of battle, and I turned to the Aetherial Prism. The crystal core had fragmented, crackling with electric arcs of raging mana. I ran to it and pressed my palm to its warmth, only to find it scorching hot. I hissed, gritting my teeth, and began to wrestle my spell back from its depths.
My soul groaned in protest as the ninth-level spell settled back on my shoulders. I doubled over, suddenly out of breath, the wounds of the blades I'd just suffered flaring up. The spell's flow had ruptured and was now at odds with the natural cycle of my soul. It took two long, painful minutes to bring it back into harmony and begin casting again.
And throughout that time, Arantius fought for me. His sword was constant, his step unwavering. No matter how Fate tried to push past him, he remained unmoved. The god's perfect control over mana, his devastating spells and arts, didn't even sway him.
