As if summoned by his words, the ground beneath them cracked. A tremor shook the land. And from the fissures rose tall stone figures—hooded, eyeless, cloaked in chains and whispering in a language older than time. Guardians of the Threshold.
Each held a weapon—one a spear of silver flame, another a hammer of ice, the last a whip of light.
"They really hate visitors, huh?" Seravine backed into Caspian. "Tell me you've got a spell for this."
"I have something better." Caspian reached into his coat—
Then remembered.
Seravine was still wearing it.
"Never mind," he muttered, sighing. "Plan B."
"What's plan B?!"
Caspian cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "Survive."
The guardians lunged.
Caspian grabbed Seravine, spun her behind him, and unleashed a raw blast of violet energy from his palm. It surged forward, meeting the silver spear mid-air and bursting into a thunderous collision. Ice shards flew, the whip of light cracked past his face—he ducked just in time.
