Germain carries a vial of his own blood, sanctified by the same church that helped him spread his wings, affixed to the inner forearm by a small injector device. The vial holds three measures, and every use of it, in any form, spends one; it cannot be refilled in the field. The needle pierces the brachial vein; the sanctified blood mixes with the holy charge already living in his body and floods the musculature of whichever arm currently holds the weapon (or, lacking one, the closed fist).

Any strike landed with the augmented arm sends a kinetic reverberation through the target's body. The wave passes through metallic armor, and only metallic armor (composite, hide, or arcane plating attenuates it), and rings through the muscle and skull beneath. The target seizes, stunned for a few seconds, and moves sluggishly for a minute or so afterward as the involuntary contractions ebb. The surge costs Germain too: the vein and the muscle around it need several minutes before the arm will take another dose, so he cannot force it twice in quick succession.

Germain squares his wings toward his enemies and beats them once, with everything his reinforced body can put behind the stroke. There is no art in the wind itself: the gust is nothing but displaced air, driven by a wingspan built to carry an armored man of his tonnage and by strength his arts push to the peak of what a Terran body can bear. The blast carries in a cone a dozen meters out. A heavy man braced at its edge may keep his footing; anyone lighter, or nearer, leaves the ground, the way a storm picks up a market stall.

The stroke is broad enough to catch two men standing near one another, and when it does, it hurls them into each other mid-air. Whatever either carries, blade, armor plate, or shield rim, becomes a hazard to the other on impact. The landing is brutal and undignified, and the one who takes the worst of it is always the one least braced for it. The cost is Germain's own lift: a full stroke leaves his wings spread wide and spent, and for the better part of a minute he can neither fly nor repeat it while they gather again.

Germain places a hand against his sternum and lets his arts pour outward instead of inward. The holy charge in his blood radiates from him as an aura, marking a circle of pale yellow light on the ground, some seven meters across, centered on where he stands. The aura builds over a minute or so, and only reaches full strength if he holds his position while it gathers.

At full strength the aura works directly on the body. For allies inside the circle the light sinks in as warmth: the burn of fatigue washes out of the muscles, breath comes deeper, flagging arms recover their weight, and every blow lands with the full force of a rested body. For death-aspected entities the same light is corrosive: whatever force stands in for muscle and breath in them thins under it, joints stiffen and movements turn halting, and exposed dead flesh scorches faintly where the light touches, weakening them for as long as they remain in the circle.

When Germain releases the aura, the gathered charge discharges in a single burst of holy light. Any death-aspected entity still inside the circle takes the burst directly: dead tissue chars, and the holy burn keeps eating at the wound for a short while after. The aura is fueled by Germain's own body: once released he is left drained, muscles trembling like after a forced march, and he cannot raise it a second time in the same engagement.

Though Germain was more often deployed alongside his elder partner, there was a stretch, a long one, when he carried his faith entirely alone. No community. No protector. Only the Order, which he had not chosen, and a cause that had cost him everyone he had known. No matter how many came against him, he held the ground.

The trigger is exact: three or more enemies in active engagement against him, no ally in reach. His arts stop rationing themselves and flood the muscle. Every swing lands with the full force of his first, however long the fight has run; fatigue burns off as fast as it forms, and pain registers without slowing the limb. He can hold this base state for perhaps a quarter hour of continuous fighting.

If he stays outnumbered, the flood deepens exactly twice, never a third time. The first surge comes after minutes of unrelieved engagement: his body holds peak output straight through wounds that should stagger him. The second comes only if the odds worsen further, and it is the last: the weight of his armor and the damage he already carries stop registering entirely. Each surge roughly halves the time he has left. Neither surge makes him hit harder than his hardest; they make every blow his hardest. His strength never leaves its rated peak.

Once the second surge is spent, collapse is a certainty, not a risk: the arts current gives out all at once, his legs fold, and he drops where he stands, whether or not the field is clear. He is defenseless until carried off or until he wakes, and he is not fit to fight again that day. Those who fought beside him learned to plan for two battles: the one he wins, and the one immediately after, when he cannot stand.