The first thing that tore Maggie from the mental vertigo was pain. A burning sting at her shoulder, where a puppet's claws had ripped through her leather tunic. The shock spun her on her heels, the halberd nearly slipping from her grasp.
She panted, fingers clenched around the smooth wooden shaft. It was a foreign mass, inert. Without the familiar flow of her stigma, the great curved blade was nothing but a burden of wood and steel. The whispers seized the chance, slipping into the breach.
"Useless. You're nothing but a broken doll. You're not even awakened anymore."
Maggie clenched her teeth. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat—not to pray, but to remember. She searched in her muscle memory, in the phantom echo her power had left behind. The perfect balance. The pivot point. The weight becoming an extension of her body.
She remembered.
