The power moved through the grain of the beam like water soaking into parched earth, racing along the fibers from end to end in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The wood didn't split or shatter. It simply surrendered. The fibers that had held the beam rigid for decades softened and crumbled, the heartwood turning to powder as the rot spread through it from within, consuming the strength of the timber the way a slow fire consumed a candle.
The iron brackets groaned as the beam they were holding disintegrated. A fine cloud of dust puffed from the gaps between the doors, and then, with a sound like a long, exhausted sigh, the heavy oak doors swung inward, knocking aside the tables and benches piled against them as though they were dollhouse furniture.
