Monson’s glove-covered hand pulsed with silver light. He squeezed Baroty’s blade, feeling part of it crack under his grip. Baroty’s whispered voice cracked a second later.
The voice held its usual haughty tone but something else gurgled underneath. Something that Monson did not recognize at first.
Monson realized what it was as Baroty wrenched the blade from his grasp and took a step back.