He didn’t expect her to agree. In fact, he expected her to leap out of his grasp and plunge straight into the Valley, heedless of the consequences.

Instead, she stayed where she was and turned to Eithan. “Am I going to fall apart if I head back in there?”

It was Ziel who answered. “Do Remnants form in there?”

“They do,” Lindon confirmed.

“Then you’ll survive. No matter how close to a spirit you are, you’ll still be more solid than a Remnant.” He pointed to Little Blue, who was leaning over Lindon’s shoulder to regard Yerin with concern. “If she doesn’t fall apart, you definitely won’t. But…”

He let the silence stretch out until Lindon wondered whether he was thinking of the right words to say or if he was waiting for someone to ask a question.

“…a stable Herald wouldn’t be affected as much as you are. Don’t know if it’s because you didn’t hit Archlord first, or...”

He slumped in place, as though speaking so much had exhausted him. Eithan swept a hand toward him. “I concur with the champion of the Wastelands. This suppression field has revealed an imbalance in your body and spirit. I could speculate as to why, but it hardly matters now.”

“So I’m not falling apart,” Yerin said.

“You will not. In fact, I suspect you won’t get any worse than you are now. Barring grievous injury, of course.”

Yerin met Lindon’s gaze. “My master dove into this with eyes open.”

Lindon nodded and started to carry her back in. The second she weakened too much, he would leap free of the field again.

She cleared her throat. “Still got two feet.”

Reluctantly, he lowered her down, although he supposed there wasn’t much risk in her walking under her own power. Even an ordinary Overlady wouldn’t be killed by falling flat on her face.

She squared herself and clutched her sword as she crossed the boundary, and her stride faltered almost immediately. Lindon reached for her, but she stopped him, taking a few deeper breaths to steady her spirit.

“Shaky as a two-day calf,” she reported, “but on the sunny side, at least it won’t get worse.”

If Lindon’s spirit felt as though it had sprung a leak, hers lost power like a shattered wine bottle. In less than a minute, she felt as weak to his perception as a Lowgold.

Lindon couldn’t make himself comfortable with that.

“If we end up in a fight…” He trailed off. He didn’t want to remind Yerin of her master’s death, but on the other hand, the Sword Sage must have knowingly weakened himself by walking into this boundary field. He had risked his life and died for it.

And now they were repeating the same mistake.

Yerin raised her voice, addressing everyone. “I’ll break easier than a glass egg in there. I’m aiming to head in anyway, but I know that’s a rotten deal for you. Anybody wants me to stay here, I’ll do it.”

She sounded completely sincere, which once again surprised him a little. Part of him had expected her to insist that she could protect herself, no matter how weakened she became.

But that’s what she would have done when she was here before. It had been a long time since then. She had seen and done more in the last few years than many sacred artists did in their entire lifetimes. She had grown.

Like he had.

“Of course we’ll take care of you!” Mercy exclaimed. She sounded slightly offended.

Eithan beamed. “I have been covering for you all this time. The only difference now is that you’re aware of it.”

Ziel shrugged and kept walking farther in.

Even Little Blue gave an encouraging peep.

“You know I—” Lindon began, but she cut him off.

“I know,” she said. “Sun’s moving.”

Together, they moved toward the Heaven’s Glory School. Two or three hundred Akura Golds had massed behind them, but still hadn’t quite caught up yet. Dross reported that they were passing out communication constructs.

Before Lindon had gone far, they came upon a simple gate. It was only a six-foot-high wall of bricks, enough that any sacred artist could clear it easily, but a squat tower rose behind it.

There were no constructs anywhere that Lindon could feel, but a few basic scripts could repel madra and keep out Remnants when activated.

Each of them hopped over the wall with ease, even Yerin.

[This is perfect! There’s no one here. Maybe they’ll just let us walk on through.]

Lindon knew that he and Yerin had only escaped so easily the first time because her rampage had already drawn most of the combat-capable Heaven’s Glory members back to the school. This post should have been manned.

What had drawn them away this time?

They saw nothing and no one else remarkable until they reached a massive block building standing proudly in the snow. It was covered with scars where it had been glued back together, piece by piece. Scars marred a mural of the four Dreadgods that hung over the entrance, wiping out the top halves of the Wandering Titan and Weeping Dragon.

The last time Lindon had seen this place, it had been a pile of rubble. The Heaven’s Glory School must have spent a fortune in repairs. All things considered, they had done a good job.

The entire building had been fenced off and surrounded by boundary flags that would activate security measures if anyone broke the perimeter. The fence was just some wire stretched between wooden posts; a symbolic barrier to alert people to the presence of the script more than any real obstacle.

And to Lindon, that fence was the most substantial part of their defenses.

He walked up, gathering pure madra in his finger.

He flicked out the smallest amount of madra he could gather. It was no more a true technique than a mouthful of grass was a meal.

The script protecting the Ancestor’s Tomb shone too bright and then flickered out, overloaded by his power so that the runes tore apart the flags into which they were woven. Sparks of essence rose from some buried constructs that had burst under the influx of power.

“Do you draw satisfaction from kicking over the sandcastles of children?” Eithan asked.

Lindon ignored him, looking to Yerin, whose gaze was locked on the Tomb. She adjusted the position of her sword-belt too many times.

“Do you want to go in?” Lindon asked.

She shook her head. “Can’t stray off the trail. Once there’s no Dreadgod about to fall on us, then we can track my master’s footsteps.”

“Ah. I retract my objection,” Eithan said. “Kick as many sandcastles as you wish.”

A stranger stumbled out from behind a nearby tree, golden technique forming.

[Heaven’s Glory!] Dross shouted. [Get him, Lindon!]

The young man who faced them with a technique glowing in his outstretched palm wore an iron badge etched with an arrow. An Iron Striker. He wore a white and gold outer robe with a red sash; the uniform of a Heaven’s Glory disciple.

Lindon felt a strange fondness when he saw that outfit. It really had been a long time.

“They’re back!” the Iron shouted. He released a line of scorching golden light at Ziel.

The former Archlord kept on trudging through the snow.

Heaven’s Glory madra splattered against him like spit against a boulder. His clothes weren’t singed.