The spiral around Randalp's feet failed in pieces.
One plate dropped first. Another followed, skidding across the floor with a dull scrape. Tock pulled them back before Vincent could step on them, but the movement came slower now. The Ikona's core blinked with uneven light near Randalp's shoulder, and every blink matched the tremor running through his arm.
Vincent rose from the crater on one knee, then pushed himself upright.
His fused armor had cracked across the chest. A strip of molten stone hung loose from his ribs and dragged heat over the floor. The kick to his temple had opened a line above one eye, but the wound sealed under red light before blood could reach his jaw.
Elias hated how much that mattered.
Vincent was hurt. That was obvious. The problem was that hurt no longer meant the same thing for him.
