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At last, the Holy Sword understood that Ketal was forcing it up, dragging it out of the earth by strength alone.
“Good heavens…,” the sword murmured.
No one was supposed to draw it unless chosen. That had been the rule the Hall of the Gods set when they sent the Holy Sword down to the Mortal Realm. A decree issued by gathered gods should have been unbreakable. Yet here it was, splintering in the hands of a single man.
The floor rumbled like a held breath. Ketal bore down and gave everything he had. He planted his feet firmly, and his arms began to swell with strain. Veins burst and bled while muscle fibers tore apart and reknit in the same instant, Myst threading through them like white-hot wire. Yet even as his body writhed under the pressure, he did not stop.
“Look at your arms! That’s grotesque! Stop! Please stop!” the Holy Sword cried.
Ketal ignored it. He had fought when all four limbs were on the verge of coming off, fought past damage that no modern medicine could have repaired. For him, this much was not excessive.
The blade slowly revealed more of itself, rising a finger at a time from the earth. Ketal answered by tightening his grip and heaving harder. At last, the sword reached its limit and began to give.
A brittle sound snapped through the chamber.
With a deafening...
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