Ketal rolled his shoulder with a soft grunt and set the joint back into place. The force of the Black Hole had dislocated it, and the bone slid home with a muffled click that felt almost mundane when measured against the storm they had just survived. He flexed his arm once, testing the line of motion, and allowed himself a brief, genuine smile.1

“A black hole,” he said, almost admiringly. “You can manifest even that.”0

The phrase was not an empty flourish. It referred to a gravity well so absolute that even light could not escape, and somehow dark magic had called forth an imitation of that celestial phenomenon into the Mortal Realm. It was powerful, and not in some delicate or esoteric way, but profoundly and directly powerful. The process of tearing free had laced Ketal’s body with cuts and bruises of different depths, and if he had lingered any longer inside that ravenous singularity, even his endurance might have met its limit.0

The wounds themselves did not trouble him. What struck him was that the wounds existed at all. He had chosen to route Aura toward breaking the prison and away from fortifying his flesh, and the price had been blood. The fact that anything in this world could force that trade from him was impressive enough to earn praise.0

“It is remarkable. You have my compliments,” Ketal murmured.0

Necrobix did not answer the flattery. Its attention had fixed upon the blade and the light that ran along it, not with fear, but with a recognition that...0