The silence following the impact was more violent than a scream. Vane's hands were numb, the vibration from the Silver Fang having traveled back up the ash-wood shaft of his spear with the force of a tectonic shift. The star-steel tip remained whole, the hardest metal in existence refusing to yield even as the obsidian-black ice on Isaac's chest absorbed the kinetic energy. Vane's breathing was a series of ragged, silver-tinted plumes. He could feel the frost beginning to bond with his skin, ignoring the heat of his mana.
Isaac did not move his hand from the spear-tip. He looked at Vane with a clarity that was terrifying. The sapphire blue in his eyes was no longer cold; it was focused.
"The problem with slowing down for so long," Isaac said, his voice carrying a physical weight that made the iron floor vibrate, "is that you eventually forget the sensation of the wind."
Isaac moved.
