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“Bold of you—to catch it?” The man’s face twisted with fury. “Fine. Then die for real!!”
A clear tone rang as light crawled over his free hand and hardened into holy power.. He drew back with every intention of caving Ketal’s skull.
Ketal’s expression barely changed. He caught that hand, too. Now, he held both wrists. The missionary thrashed, spat, and jerked his shoulders as if he might shake his bones free of their sockets.
“You flea-bitten barbarian!” he snarled. “Let me go!”
Hadn’t they called him gentle? Ketal wondered. He studied the man’s eyes and found no gentleness there; they were blown wide with mania, the pupils swimming. The Holy Sword hummed in mild fascination.
“Is he truly ordained? He looks more madman than missionary. Perhaps Elia’s mercy is broader than I thought.”
“Let go!” the man shouted again, wrenching from side to side. “I said, let go!”
Reason would not find a purchase on a mind in that state. Ketal weighed the moment, sighed inwardly, and loosened his grip.
“I need you to calm down,” Ketal said.
He did not raise his voice, but he set force behind the word, and the force sank into the room. His presence pressed on wood and plaster and air, turned every grain in the doorframe heavy, and then flowed over the man and down his spine. The missionary’s face froze, caught on the ragged edge between rage and something like panic.
“W-what…?” the missionary stammered.
Reality acknowledged a weight his mind could not ignore; the mania cracked....
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