The murmuring among the soldiers swelled once more, a tide of voices pressing against Lyerin.
One of them stepped forward—a tall man with a sneer permanently etched into his lips.
His eyes glimmered with a mix of entitlement and bravado, as if the world owed him answers simply for the burden of his existence.
"Chieftain Lyerin," the man said, drawing out each word with a false, syrupy politeness. "If I may ask, this 'revival' ability—does it work every time? No matter how grievous the injury? Say, if one of us were burned to ashes… would we still rise?"
Lyerin's eyes, dark and unyielding as the abyss, narrowed slightly. He kept his voice level, though it carried a subtle, dangerous edge.
"Yes," he said.
