The dwarf makes the attempt. A short prayer to Torag results in him being surrounded in a shimmering aura of light, which activates with a flash on contact with the wardstone. When the light clears, however, the red is as expansive as ever.

”That’s evil alright, not that there was any great doubt, but too embedded for me to dispel. Even if I had another dozen prepared I don’t think I would get anywhere unless the wardstone was destroyed first.”

"Then I'm going to try." And if nobody stops her, she will draw the purple crystal not-quite-blade and lay it against the Wardstone's wound.

There's a spark as the two items make contact, sending tingles through Brenda's arm like a particularly powerful static shock, and a feeling that has probably rapidly become familiar to her of the world trying to fall away into another vision.

She wasn't expecting a vision but she'll listen/watch/participate/thing there isn't a convenient word for.

From this angle, the wardstone's existence as an ordinary magical item seems more like smoke and mirrors than truth. This artifact, like all of its fellows to which it connects, is an enormous magical cage; one that imprisons within it hundreds of angels so that the collective can prevent the demons from escaping the cage it forms. But despite the fact that each and every prisoner within hails from the upper planes, within this enclosure of angels, a war is being fought.

One of the armies, much like the unblemished light of the wardstone and Lariel's sword, still shines with a pure golden light. When Brenda's gaze rests upon them, they speak of duty, of sacrifice, of taking onto themselves the weight of the world so that others are not crushed by loads they cannot bear. This, they say, is the truth of the wardstones; a great host of angelic volunteers out of heaven that agreed to be sealed away to save the world from demonic conquest after force of arms failed to stem the tide. Despite the many years since they arrived, they do not hold any resentment for their lot or desire respite from their imprisonment. If Iomedae were to call again for them to descend from paradise to save the mortals of Golarion, even knowing as they do the risk of their own death and suffering because heaven cannot spare the strength to win, they would to suffer it again without hesitation. They warn Brenda of the demonic plan to corrupt the angels within and change the artifact from a shield against evil into a corrupt beacon, and ask for her aid in removing the corruption and preventing this eventuality from coming to pass.

The other army glows with the same angry red that mars the wardstone's appearance when viewed from without. When Brenda's gaze rests upon them, they speak of suffering and disillusionment, for the truth of the wardstones is that their strength rests on the suffering of those trapped within. Every injury dealt to the artifact is reflected upon those angels who took up vigil to maintain it, and this demonic poison is merely the latest and most painful in a series of injuries inflicted upon them until it grew too much for even them to bear. Unlike the golden host, they do not speak with one voice; some among their number beg for an escape from the trap in which they've found themselves, while others sob wordlessly due to the pain, but by far the most common refrain amongst their words is begging for death. Even the oblivion of Abbadon would be preferable to having to endure the pain steadily driving them more and more insane. They no longer have any hope for salvation, and cannot trust that the gods of good will deliver them from their suffering after their prayers have gone unanswered for so long.

But this is not the only perspective available to Brenda. Through the eyes of an aeon, the problem is that the wardstone should not exist on Golarion at all. While the demons being permitted to travel freely across the prime material is something to be fought to the last, the angels no more belong here than they do. To balance a violation with more violation is nothing but madness; with a twist of the dagger's power, she could repurpose the magic trapping the angels within the wardstone to return all the prisoners to heaven, though there would be no possibility of discriminating who was moved and the stone itself would be consumed utterly in the doing.

Possibility itself exists within Brenda's hands. She could accomplish any of these wishes, if she so chose, and other options besides; these are not the only possibilities for the power she now can grasp, if only she could reach out and see them-

She does not weep only because her mind is too far from her eyes. She cries out to the despairing angels: please hold on, hold on, you're doing so much good, saving so many lives, everyone you're protecting would be so grateful if they knew, I will find a way to ease your pain--

Is there a way to draw the poison out, to lessen the angels' suffering without destroying them?

The power of the dagger surges in response to her desire, falling over the red warriors like a crashing wave and washing off the poison. It is not a wholly gentle process, for the demonic taint fights back fiercely against this assault, but it lacks the strength to remain in the face of the power arrayed against it and where it goes it leaves in its wake astonished faces and tears of relief. Though the wounds it dealt are not healed, without the added agony of the poison they can hear her words and those of their fellows through clear ears and drop their weapons. Some of them rejoin the host, to the joy of their brethren, while others who were more badly injured say words of farewell and pass into a deep slumber until their vigil comes to an end. The angels thank Brenda profusely for her help, and the obelisk glows brighter than it did before as the cracks upon its structure start to repair themselves.

It's not just the wardstone that was changed by the events, however. While the poison was cleansed, some of the power Brenda wielded to do so remains and returns to her like a raging torrent. The golden wings from when she first picked up Lariel's sword return and she lifts into the air almost involuntarily, light emanating from her skin like a beacon. It feels almost like trying to fit an ocean into a teacup, and while some of the power can remain with her, there's simply too much for her to handle as she is now. Brenda gets the sense that she could pass a portion of it on to others if she chose, or release it upwards to dissipate harmlessly, but all of it must go somewhere.

Her first instinct is to share it indiscriminately with everyone in the room, because why should she be the arbiter of who gets power, but--no. There are people here she doesn't know, people she knows and doesn't trust, people who might use additional power not to make the hard choices easy but to avoid thinking about them. Choosing to share with everyone isn't the same as not having the choice; it's just choosing irresponsibly in order to pretend she isn't responsible.

She throws streams of magic to Ember and Seelah and Wenduag, Terendelev and Ramien, Irabeth and Anevia, and to Alpina nestled in her jacket, and lets the rest go.

Perhaps the most obvious result of this action is that a pillar of light blows part of the roof off the grey garrison, but from the gasps around the room receiving the power is probably at least as easy to notice for the person in question as the glow now surrounding them is for everyone else. After a few seconds, however, the flow of power dies down and her wings slowly start to dissipate. The still-active fly spell stops her from descending if she doesn't want to, but it's very clear to her that that's holding her up and not the same force that bore her aloft. 

Hulrun is too busy fervently praying to Iomedae in thanks for the miracle to notice anyone other than Brenda was affected, but judging by the look on his face is not remotely in the mood to take issue with anything right now.

Wenduag grins, marveling at feeling of strength suffusing her, and reaffirms to herself the correctness of her decision to follow Brenda.

Anevia lets out a little whoop of joy, which Irabeth has too much self control to echo herself but she cracks a smile at her wife's enthusiasm.

For Terendelev, the power comes as more of a shock to a woman who has long since formed the expectation that any growth in her strength would only come with time.

Seelah goes down on one knee to give thanks for the blessing she received from the miracle.

And Ember and Ramien, for all their differences in faith, find common ground in their reaction of staring at the world in wonder.

And Brenda, in the moment after releasing the power, filled with relief at her success and determination to find a way to further help the angels, realizes that what previously felt wrong now feels right. A halo like Ramien's appears around her head; the guardians of the Wardstone are both her allies and her kin.

She still feels too full of emotion for words, but it's clear she ought to say something. 

"The Wardstone is repaired. If anyone here still needs healing, I can heal now."

"Jhoran and I have already gotten most of the ordinary injuries, but if your new ability handles energy drain I expect the Prelate would appreciate it. Mine does not, though, so if it's the same power for each of us that seems suggestive about yours."

"I think I have the same one you do, it felt like--a bunch of one substance, not a collection of separate things."

She kind of wants to find out if everyone already knew the Wardstones were maintained by a host of angels, but if the answer is no she should think through the implications before blurting it out. What she needs to know is what would be necessary to stop the invasion and let them go home.

"So, what happens now?"

"Now we leave a guarding force at the wardstone, just in case whatever method the demons used to get it in the first place lets them make a second attempt at it, and I go find wherever the rest of the demons in Kenabres are hiding and teach them to regret attacking the people of my city. If you or your party wished to help out with that, it wouldn't go amiss, but with their main strongholds broken It's unlikely there's anything else that would give me trouble. If what you need is to rest or grab something to eat, the temples of Desna or Iomedae should be safe locations to do so."

She's not wounded anymore, her injuries were all the mundane sort easily fixed by a channel. She last ate . . . breakfast, this morning, in her tent on the outskirts of Neatholm, which was pretty recent even if it feels like a million years ago. So why does her brain feel like it's been power-washed.

"I. Might want to sit down for a bit and figure out where I'm going to be staying tonight. And then I'll help mop up."

"Take all the time you need. Irabeth, I'm asking you and the eagle's watch to hold the wardstone; I'll send the rest of your people your way to help with that. Jhoran Vhane, can I count on you to assist until they arrive?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

And then returning once more to her draconic form, Terendelev takes off into the air, exiting through window she broke on the way in.