Deborah's POV
Matthew's body tensed up, his movements frozen.
I watched in horror as his eyes widened, confusion flashing across his face for just a heartbeat before he slowly glanced down.
Crimson blood was already blooming across his shirt, spreading rapidly from the gunshot wound in his abdomen.
"No—" a strangled scream tore from my throat as if something inside me had snapped, pain and fear coursing through my veins like a searing fire.
Panic threatened to consume me, but I forced it back, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
No time to waste, no time for fear.
I had to act now. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed Matthew's arm.
Every ounce of energy I had left surged to the surface, every thread of magic in my body roaring to life.
"Ventus Swift!"
The spell flew from my lips like a desperate prayer.
And then, the world dissolved into a blur of motion and color as we were whisked away, and the ground vanished beneath our feet.
When the world finally settled and the disorienting whirlpool of magic dissipated, I found myself staring at a familiar sight—sand.
More sand, stretching out endlessly in every direction.
Desperation clawed at my chest.
No matter how many times I tried to teleport us somewhere safer, we always ended up in the same barren desert.
It was as if the entire world had been swallowed by this lifeless, scorching wasteland.
Could it be that the entire surface of the earth had turned into this desert?
The sun hung mercilessly overhead, glaring down at us like a relentless predator.
It felt like we were being boiled alive.
The air was thick and suffocating, every breath scorching my throat as if I were inhaling fire.
There was neither shade nor shelter—just the endless expanse of burning sand.
Our Mobi devices, once our lifeline to Murias, had stopped working the moment we left the underground city.
Now they were just useless pieces of metal and glass. Not even the time was accurate anymore. Everything felt disjointed, unmoored.
I had no idea how long we had been wandering.
Hours? Days?
Time itself seemed to have warped in this forsaken place.
And Matthew… he was getting worse.
His face was a sickly pale color, and the wound in his abdomen still oozed blood, staining the makeshift bandages I had hastily wrapped around him.
He had told me—promised me—that he could heal quickly, but I saw no sign of it. No miraculous regeneration, no closing of the wound. Only more blood, more pain.
I knelt beside him, every muscle trembling with exhaustion and fear.
"I have to get the bullet out," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
My voice shook, barely audible above the faint whisper of the desert wind. "I have to…"
My fingers fumbled through our scant supplies until they closed around the cold, metallic handle of a small utility knife—the only tool we had, and now, our only hope.
"Matthew, stay with me," I murmured, trying to sound confident. But my hands were trembling, sweat trickling down my forehead and stinging my eyes.
Matthew's gaze was hazy, unfocused, but he managed a weak smile. "I'm not going anywhere, Deborah. Just… get it done."
Taking a deep breath, I leaned over him and carefully peeled back the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt, revealing the torn, mangled flesh beneath.
The sight of the wound made my stomach twist, but I couldn't afford to falter now.
The bullet was still embedded deep in his abdomen, lodged somewhere between muscle and bone.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood, then carefully inserted the blade's tip into the wound, trying to widen the opening just enough to locate the bullet.
Matthew's body jerked violently, a choked groan escaping his lips.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I whispered frantically, my heartbreaking with every pained sound he made.
His skin was slick with sweat, his entire body trembling under my touch, but he didn't push me away.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally felt the blade scrape against something hard—metal. The bullet.
"Almost there," I told him, my voice barely holding steady.
With trembling fingers, I hooked the knife beneath the bullet and carefully pried it loose.
Matthew's whole body arched as a guttural sound tore from his throat. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and red, spilling over my hands.
"Stay with me, Matthew!" I cried, fighting the urge to panic.
My hands moved on autopilot, grabbing the roll of bandages from our emergency kit and pressing it hard against the wound, desperately trying to stem the bleeding.
But it wouldn't stop.
No matter how tightly I wrapped the bandages, no matter how much pressure I applied, the blood kept seeping through, staining the fabric a deep, terrible crimson.
"Please, don't do this," I whispered, my vision blurring as tears filled my eyes. "Don't leave me."
Time blurred.
The sun climbed higher, baking us alive, and still, Matthew's condition worsened. He started to drift in and out of consciousness, his breath shallow and ragged.
I pressed my fingers against his throat, feeling the faint, fluttering pulse beneath his skin, and knew he wouldn't last much longer without water.
But we were out of water.
He muttered something incoherent, his lips cracked and dry. I leaned closer, straining to hear him.
"Thirsty… so thirsty…"
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. He needed water. But there was none.
Desperation welled up inside me, tightening my chest until I could hardly breathe.
"I'll find water," I vowed, even though I knew it was a lie. There was no water out here, no oasis, no hope.
Still, I tried.
Leaving him as comfortably as I could on the sand, I stumbled to my feet and began teleporting again and again, frantically searching for something, anything, that could save him. But each time I reappeared, I was met with the same unforgiving desert.
No water. No life.
It was as if the entire world had been drained dry.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of fruitless searching, I returned to Matthew, empty-handed and exhausted. He was barely conscious now, his skin pale and clammy, lips bloodless and cracked.
"Matthew…" My voice broke as I knelt beside him, staring down at his face, at the fragile thread of life that seemed to be slipping away.
No. I wouldn't let him die. I couldn't.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, then lifted my hand and, without hesitating, sliced open my palm.
Blood welled up instantly, hot and red.
I pressed my bleeding hand against his lips, letting the blood trickle into his mouth.
"Drink, Matthew. Please, drink."
He stirred faintly, his lips parting instinctively. The blood slid over his tongue, drop by precious drop.
I held my breath, watching him, willing him to take in my blood, to stay alive.
"Please," I whispered again, my own strength fading. "Please…"
And then everything went dark.