Along the perimeter of the vortex, the wisps' singeing spits of fire sink into the skin. The guard emerges from the other side with a bloody spot on his shoulder where nerves will never regrow. The wisp doesn't change; Kostos would note that if he all of his noting abilities weren't being devoted to looking at the woman's decaying face, awareness of his wisps drowned out by the cacophony of the book and the bile in his throat.

But he doesn't have to think to work. Still, but half-crouched and ready to move. Hands moving, murmuring silent, count of their enemy hardly conscious. Smashed throat. Bashed head. Shoulder burn. Knives—the barrier may not hold for them. There's more than their own magic to pull, twist, transmit. Too much of it. His attention snaps back to what he's doing because it's slid out of his control, like a foot catching gravel on a steep incline.

A surge of magic spills toward anyone who can use it. What's left bottlenecking arcs out of him instead, lightning cracking toward nothing in particular, managing to hit only the decaying body of the woman Isaac left behind.