"My lord, perhaps if you give me a bit of space so I can work…." The healer's voice trembled as he spoke, but his words faltered into silence under Aldric's intense glare. The turbulent blue eyes staring at him seemed to reflect his impending death.
"Or maybe not," the healer swallowed nervously and continued his assessment of the human on the bed, his healing powers flowing over her.
Aldric watched Islinda's chest rise and fall, feeling a bit of relief in his heart. His Islinda would be fine. She was not dead. The healer would take care of her, or else he would join her soon after.
Everything was his fault. If only he hadn't lowered his defenses, then Elena—or should he say, Lola, that witch—wouldn't have gained the upper hand over him. He had been overconfident in his abilities and had fallen so low.
