The light dying in Cherion's palms was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen.
It wasn't a dramatic flickering, like a candle in a draft. It was a slow, agonizing seep, the mana being swallowed by the Duke's skin as if his body were a desert that no amount of rain could satisfy. Cherion's own hands were shaking, not only from the cold, but from the sheer, soul-crushing effort of trying to jump-start a heart that seemed to have forgotten its rhythm.
"Work, you piece of... come on," Cherion hissed, his voice cracking against the silence.
He was hunched over Zarius, his knees screaming from the cold of the cave floor. His hands hovered, palms down, a soft, pulsating light bleeding from his skin into Zarius.
Bruises. Some internal bleeding. Bones… not happy, but still cooperating.
