The forest was still save for the shallow, ragged breaths of the defeated.
The faint light of the moon illuminated the broken forms of Donovan, Theran, Miriam, Mikhail, and the Younger Woman as they lay sprawled on the dirt, their bodies trembling with exhaustion.
Every muscle ached, every ounce of mana had been drained, and the faint warmth of life itself felt like it was slipping away.
Miriam let out a small, pained whimper, her hands clutching at her abdomen where one of Lyerin's torturous insects had burrowed beneath her skin.
The sensation was unlike anything she had ever endured—like a living, writhing fire tearing through her insides. She could feel it moving, biting, devouring.
Theran was no better. He had collapsed to his knees, his face pale and slick with sweat. His blood magic, once a source of pride, was now a curse.
