I pushed myself up.
My arms were shaking. My legs were barely holding. Tempest was heavy in my hand, heavier than it had ever been, like the blade itself was tired of fighting, tired of blood, tired of the endless cycle of violence that seemed to follow me wherever I went.
Blood dripped from the gash on my chest. My white hair was matted with sweat and blood, clinging to my face in tangled strands, and my vision kept blurring at the edges like the world was trying to fade away and take me with it.
Amelia stood in front of me.
Her staff was raised, her knuckles white where she gripped the wood, and the water spirit swirled around her — a translucent serpent of liquid light that glowed faintly in the darkness, pulsing with a radiance that hadn't been there before.
