Arik pulled his hand away from the splintered wood.
The drops of blood on his fingertips crystallized instantly into dark red ice, then evaporated into raw golden ether as his channels sealed the broken skin by instinct.
He stared at the painted face of the Emperor.
The portrait was a memorial to Felix's greatest triumph, a daily reminder that the Canmore patriarch had brought down a god and survived long enough to decorate his private suite with proof.
Felix had kept the portrait the way some men kept the blade they used for their first. A proof of their skill.
Arik raised his hand.
The air around his fingers warped with a control that was new only to this body. Old ether answered him, no longer clawing blindly from beneath his ribs, no longer fighting to seize his throat, but standing close behind him like a shadow with teeth.
Goliath was not gone.
He was not buried anymore either.
