The Inquisitors stiffened, heads turning toward Veyr with the synchronized movement of predators sensing prey. But Calvian's expression remained unchanged, that perfect serenity undisturbed by the implicit challenge in Veyr's words.
"Your house produces skilled fighters, Lord Velrane," he acknowledged, the golden fire around his sword pulsing in time with his words. "But skill alone cannot stand against corruption. Only the flame purifies."
He stepped closer to Soren, close enough that the heat from his aura became nearly unbearable. Those burning eyes studied him with the detached interest of a naturalist examining an unusual specimen.
"You are unworthy to stand as a Blade," Calvian said, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
"Yet something clings to you." His gaze dropped to Soren's chest, to the exact spot where the shard rested beneath his shirt. "The Flame will strip it bare."
