Dayat descended the tower stairs with heavy, leaden steps. Each stair felt like scaling a mountain. The wound on his shoulder still bled, despite being crudely bound with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt. His body felt hollow—his manifestation energy was depleted, and his physical strength was nearing its limit.
He stopped at every landing to catch his breath. Outside, the sky began to shift colors, turning from a deep, inky black to a pale, ghostly gray. Dawn was imminent.
'Two hours,' Dayat thought. 'Two hours since I walked from that narrow alley to this place, fought, climbed the tower, shot Alaric, and now... the descent.'
He forced himself to keep moving. Every downward step felt heavier than the last.
