The hammer didn't just strike the anvil; it struck the very fabric of my reality.
When the massive, brass-headed mallet swung toward my skull, I didn't move because of training. I moved because the **violet spark**—the piece of Silas’s soul tucked beneath my ribs—screamed a warning before the air even rippled. I threw myself to the left, the wind of the strike whistling past my ear with the force of a falling skyscraper.
The hammer slammed into the metallic floor, sending a shockwave of green sparks through the chamber. The vibrations traveled up through my boots, threatening to shatter my shins.
"Silas, stop!" I screamed, scrambling to my feet.
He didn't hesitate. He pulled the hammer back with a mechanical hiss, the brass gears in his shoulders grinding with a sound like a car wreck
