Her breath hitched, a small, broken sound that somehow carried over the din of battle. "What—?" The word escaped her lips like a prayer, like a plea.
"Now!" I roared, the command tearing itself from my throat with a force that seemed to make the very air vibrate.
The Bishop turned back to me, his eyes glinting with newfound interest, like a collector who had just spotted a rare specimen. He raised his staff again, the wood humming with power, with promise.
I raised my sword in defiance, Purelight flickering along its length, struggling to maintain its brilliance as my strength waned. My stance was wide, unstable, my body betraying me as blood loss and exhaustion took their toll.
Gifts weren't meant to be shared.
That was the rule. The fundamental law. No one could transfer the core of their Gift to another—it was part of them, bound to their very existence. Like trying to give away your heartbeat, like trying to lend someone your breath. Impossible. Unthinkable.
