The battlefield was silent, save for their ragged breathing. The acrid scent of scorched earth and burning flesh hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.
Smoke curled from the ruins, the jagged remains of ancient stone archways jutting out like broken ribs. The ground beneath them trembled—a sick pulse that had nothing to do with the aftermath of the fight.
Val ran a shaking hand through his damp hair, his body still thrumming with mana. The Voidborn was gone, its body reduced to little more than a twisted, oozing husk. But something felt off.
"…That's it, right?" Rian asked, his voice hoarse. His sword was still drawn, his posture tense, ready. "Tell me that's it."
Yara, slumped against a toppled column, barely managed a response. "I—I don't think so." Her breath hitched. A slow trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her lips.
Val turned to her sharply. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
She wasn't fine.
