River laughed too, but her eyes gleamed with something that made both Paul and Alia exchange wary looks. “Not exactly a fence,” she replied, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Something stronger. Something ancient.”
Alia crossed her arms. “River, what are you thinking?”
River reached for one of the open manuscripts she’d been poring over earlier. It was a heavy, cracked leather tome — one of the oldest in the collection, the script archaic and curling. She ran her fingers over the ink and began to read aloud, her voice carrying through the chamber like an incantation:
“Iron, the blood of the earth, bane of demons and spirits. Cold iron forbids the passage of wickedness, for its purity repels corruption. Let it be buried at threshold and gate, let it ring around the hearth, and no witch may c
