At the iron-coated arms maintaining contact.
At the plate covering his chest and both shoulders—not encasing him, not the structural depth that Cullen's ice built, but present and growing and adhered to his skin in a way that wasn't going away.
He launched everything remaining.
Both palms. All concentration. The maximum sound output he could produce directed at the iron plate from close range, the constructs cycling through every configuration he'd used in the fight—concussive rings, binding coils, barrier fragments—all firing simultaneously at the coverage on his chest and shoulders, the frequency at maximum, his focus narrowed to a single question: find some mechanism that would interact with the iron and remove it.
The iron didn't dissolve.
The sound waves heated it.
