The fractal mark answered before Rama had fully decided to let it. Heat lanced up his forearm and out through his sword arm in a rush that felt less like his own strength and more like something ancient briefly lending him its shoulder to lean on. He drove forward into the wall of frost with a shout, blade carving a path through churning white that parted around the weapon's edge like something reluctant to touch it directly.
"Behind me," he called back to the company, and Pramono was already organizing a retreat toward the tunnel mouth, soldiers dragging back anyone caught too deep in the spreading cold, Ki Branggah stumbling twice before a young soldier hauled him upright and clear.
