The broadsword was dark iron, broad as a man's forearm and long enough that the tip nearly grazed the courtyard stone when Lancelot held it at rest. He held it now at his right side, not raised, not in any formal guard. It simply existed in his hand the way his hand existed at the end of his arm.
Isaac looked at it.
The Pale Eternity expanded.
Not the controlled application he had been using in the exchange, the spatial folds and geometric compression that had made them even for six minutes. The full release, the Authority at whatever its current classification meant, and the courtyard stopped being a courtyard and started being something else entirely. The geometry of the space bent inward around Isaac as an anchor point. The flagging cracked along lines that followed angles that had not existed a moment before. The air crystallized in patterns that moved against the wind rather than with it.
The temperature dropped to a register that made the previous cold feel like comfort.
