The sigils double in strength instantly, red light flaring beneath the yard stones, along the window seams, across the roofline, and through the iron anchors Corin hammered into place. The house groans under the sudden reinforcement, not from damage but from saturation. I spread the protection outward and inward at once, knotting the lattice around every threshold, every vent, every crack that could admit a spell, shadow, or breath of devouring influence.
Sable stumbles slightly as the tether reacts.
I turn toward her at once.
“I’m fine,” she says, though her face is pale. “Don’t start.”
“I had not yet started.”
“You had the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide I’m made of spun glass and bad decisions.”
Corin lowers his stake. “To be fair, you are at least half bad decisions.”
“Not the moment, Corin.”
He gives her arm a squeeze before releasing it. “No. It is exactly the moment. If that bastard wants your heart, we are not pretending this is manageable with tea and stern looks.”
“We need traps,” she says.
“We need iron,” he replies.
“We need both,” I say.
They look at me together, and for an instant the similarity between them strikes with uncomfortable clarity. Same will. Same refusal. Same infuriating instinct to meet terror with plans rather than obedience.
Corin points toward the shed. “I can forge stakes.”
“You can shape preheated iron with sufficient force,” I correct. “You cannot forge properly without a full setup.”
He is already moving. “Then I’ll do it improperly and fast.”
Sable turns toward the house. “I’ll make the resin charges. Blackthorn, salt, iron filings, and a binding oil if I have enough.”
“No cardiac stimulants,” I say.
She stops and looks back. “Excuse me?”
“No concoctions that increase your heart rate.”
Her eyes flash. “You do not get to supervise my pulse like it is a public utility.”
“Maltherion identified your heart as the severance target. Until further notice, any substance affecting rhythm requires review.”
Corin points at me while backing toward the shed. “I hate to say it, but he has a point.”
“I hate both of you,” Sable snaps.
“No, you don’t,” Corin says.
“I can start.”
He disappears toward the shed before she can throw anything.
Inside, the house has transformed from shelter into armory. Sable moves through the kitchen with violent efficiency, pulling jars from shelves, uncorking bottles, grinding blackthorn resin until its bitter green scent fills the air. Iron filings glitter on the table. Salt scatters beneath her fingers. Her breathing remains controlled, but the tether tells me the truth beneath her face.
