The Rust burned.
William felt it in his veins first—a fire that started in his chest and spread outward, through his arms, his legs, his fingers. His blood was boiling. His bones were cracking. His skin was crawling.
He opened his mouth to scream. No sound came out.
The black mist poured into him, thicker now, darker. It filled his lungs, his stomach, his skull. He could feel the Rust moving through him, searching for something. The Saint's blood. The ritual's anchor.
Let it in, he told himself. Let it all in.
The crown on the altar began to glow. Not with light—with heat. The iron turned red, then white, then blue. The grooves around the altar filled with molten metal, flowing into the runes, completing the circle.
Elara shouted something. He couldn't hear her.
Kaelen grabbed her a
