The drone’s light turned green.
He thought of his training. The mantra. Move. Act. Do not evaluate. He forced his gaze from the sphere to his own hand. He saw it not as his hand—a sensitive, fragile thing of bone and blood—but as a tool. A pair of pliers. A clamp. cold fear trainer
"Excellent," the voice said, warmth returning to the room in a wave. The floor thawed. Jace’s hands, stuck to the sphere, began to steam. As the heat returned, the ice cracked, and he dropped the sphere. It shattered on the floor. The drone’s light turned green
He looked at his palms. The skin was an angry, blistering red, already peeling in places. But he was holding them open. Not clenched. He was showing the wounds to the ceiling, like an offering. He forced his gaze from the sphere to his own hand
He took one step forward. The cold bit into his shins. Another step. The air was so frigid it felt thick, like breathing splinters.
The drone’s red light blinked once. The air temperature plummeted.
"Do it," the voice whispered. Not a command. A conspirator’s nudge.