Fire was discharged from Broomf, sweeping the surrounding and blackening the ground, before he reappeared in front of Lucas.
His arm seemed back in one piece as he moved it, but the dent on his chest showed that he didn't heal at all, meaning that he was forcing himself.
His skin dried at a speed visible to the naked eyes, though it remained glossy under the glow of the flames rising from him. But that didn't change the cracks appearing on his gray skin as the temperature around him climbed, and the color of his flames darkened, while their concentration lightened.
The tongues of flame lost in terms of quantity, but gained in terms of quality.
Lucas narrowed his eyes at the newfound pressure emanating from Broomf, and turned serious at the determination he saw on the latter's face, the determination of someone looking for a companion for the road of the underworld he was certain was already open for him.
"Remember, I'm called Broomf."
