The garden of Arven had become, against Damon's will, a kind of open-air infirmary.
Ester did not call it that, of course. To her, it was a controlled training area, with good visibility, few breakable objects, and a reasonable distance from any important document. Damon called it a prison with bushes. Aria, when passing by once, suggested "courtyard of frozen emotional containment," and the expression almost caught on until Ester threatened to ban visits.
That afternoon, Damon remained seated on the ground, legs crossed and left palm facing upward. Over his skin, a thin structure of ice formed an incomplete ring around his wrist. It was not pretty. It was not stable. It looked more like a broken bracelet made by someone in a hurry and in a bad mood. Even so, it had a purpose. Center, crosspieces, outer layer, small internal channels. An improvised lock for the root's flow.
He breathed slowly and pushed Qi through the structure.
The ice cracked.
Damon closed his eyes.
