The Butcher's Bride
A heavy, reinforced steel cage—hidden in the architecture of the church—had descended from the rafters, locking us in a ten-by-ten square.
Kaelen didn't freeze. He acted.
He set me down gently on the floor and drew his falchion. With a roar of effort, he swung the massive blade at the bars.
RNGGGGG.
The sound of metal striking metal was deafening. Sparks showered down on us.
The bars didn't even dent. They were thick as my arm, made of darkened, tempered steel.
"No," Kaelen breathed, striking them again. And again. "No!"