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Swords carved tangled paths through the air and converged on Ketal. He slipped past some, knocked others aside, and caught the rest on forearms and fingertips that turned at the last instant. His heel kissed stone, and he shot forward, straight at the Holy Sword.
“Where do you think you are going?” the Holy Sword said.
With that single utterance, space itself leaned and pressed. The room did not move, yet the distance changed. The Holy Sword exercised an authority that reached into the world’s rules and rewrote them. The first time Ketal had tried to approach, that same force had blasted him all the way to the far wall.
“You can never reach me. You will need to try another,” the sword announced, lofty and sure.
Ketal’s answer was a breath pulled tight in his belly. He gathered himself and drove strength through every muscle fiber. His frame braced, his breath climbed, and he forced his way through the pressure that excluded him.
“What—?” The sword’s voice clipped short.
In a rush, new blades formed and hurled themselves at Ketal. He met steel with palm and elbow, turned his shoulders to let points pass him by, yet the effort cost him perfect resistance. The room’s rejection chewed at him and slid him back across the floor.
Even...
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