Far from the battlefield, everything was a haze. My body was broken—beyond exhausted. I couldn't move, couldn't even open my eyes fully. My limbs felt like dead weight, and every breath burned like molten metal in my chest. I wasn't sure if I was alive or just caught in the final echoes of death.
I heard voices—distant, muffled, as if they were underwater. My mind tried to focus, to latch onto something, anything.
Then, I felt it.
A surge of warmth but not natural, not gentle, but powerful. Old. It flooded through my veins like lightning and ash. Zarathorak's presence was unmistakable. His aura swept over us all like a tidal wave. It wasn't comforting; it was overwhelming—raw, ancient, furious, and somehow… focused.
He was healing us.
Fafnir, beside me, groaned. Veydris let out a soft, ragged breath. Their bodies, like mine, had been ravaged. But I could feel the ancient blood-magic weaving into them, mending torn flesh, knitting shattered bones.
But me?
It wasn't working.
