My bare hand was pressed flat against a raw red pustule of the mountain's exposed meat.
My well was bone dry. My collarbone was snapped, my ribs were cracked, and my Soul Sanctum was crumbling under the weight of the Stage 3 corruption. I had nothing left to throw at the god chained into the bedrock.
So I gave her the baseline.
Summoner's Touch needed no essence. It ignored the size of whatever it touched and went straight for the architecture of the spirit, softening it from the inside, unhardening it. For thousands of years the mother of dragons had been locked in this abyss, and her core had set rigid around the agony and the rage.
I pushed the Touch into her raw flesh and kept pushing, driving the softening deep into that colossal spirit.
The hostility pouring off the cliff face simply stopped.
