Teclos' thoughts were no longer his own, spiraling in violent, chaotic waves that refused to settle, each one darker than the last. They twisted together—rage, grief, and crushing self-blame—until he could barely tell them apart, and every second stretched into an eternity.
He knelt there, unmoving, in front of Gillard's body.
In his left hand, hanging liflessly at his side, he held an empty potion flask between his fingers. The last few droplets he had not managed to feed Gillard fell one by one to the ground, reminding him how little it had mattered in the end.
In his right hand, he still held his sword. Its edge was worn and chipped now, painted blood-red from hilt to tip, still dripping onto the soil.
Even this miracle had not been enough to save his friend.
