The forest's hush was deeper now. As though even the trees exhaled with relief after the bloodshed.
Arin sat against a low, gnarled root, his body weary and aching. The air had cooled, carrying the scent of crushed leaves and faint iron. His fingers moved with practiced rhythm as he unstoppered the small brass vial from his satchel—a gift from his mother before he left.
Thick, translucent liquid gleamed within, tinted pale gold. It pulsed faintly with warmth—not from heat, but from something deeper.
"Medicine here isn't just herbs and hope," Arin murmured to himself, dabbing the salve over the claw marks that slashed across his shoulder. He winced as it hissed on contact, but the sting faded quickly, replaced by a soothing numbness. "Everything in Eldoria… even healing is shaped by the world's pulse."
His mother had called them Etherborn salves—infused with residual fragments of Samsāra Shakti. Not strong enough to mimic spells, but aligned to the body's rhythm. They didn't just close wounds. They helped the body remember how it once was, urging it back to wholeness.
When he glanced to the side, Evelyne was crouched nearby, tending to the last of the slain Kaelinths with precise movements. Her breath was steady. Her hands, calm. She hadn't taken a major hit. Not like him.
He studied her in the moonlight.
Not a scratch deep enough to draw real blood. She fought like she had been born with a dagger in hand. But beneath that quiet grace was something else. Something heavy.
"You barely got touched," he said softly, not accusing, just... marveling.
Evelyne didn't meet his gaze right away. She knelt in silence for a moment longer, then sat beside him, wiping the blade clean on a strip of cloth.
"It's not luck," she said after a beat. "Just… practice."
Her voice was quieter than usual.
"Since I was accused—since my world began to collapse—I stopped caring if I lived or died." Her violet eyes were distant, turned toward the trees. "After a point, pain didn't scare me anymore. I trained like I had nothing left to protect. Because I didn't."
Arin looked at her, really looked.
And for a moment, he saw not the cold, poised villainess the world would one day condemn—but a girl forged in loneliness and betrayal.
"You were strong," he said. "Even then."
"No," she replied. "I was just... surviving."
He was quiet for a while.
Then, softly: "During the fight… you helped me. More than once."
Her lips curved—just a little.
"You needed it."
"I know," he smiled faintly. "But I thought I was protecting you."
"You did," she replied, and her eyes flicked to his wound. "In your own stubborn, reckless way."
They sat in silence again, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable—just full. Filled with the lingering echoes of battle, of choices made, of blood spilled and spared.
Arin leaned back. "We still have time."
Evelyne glanced at him, one brow rising. "What are you thinking?"
"There were two Kaelinths that escaped. They'll retreat for now, but…"
"They'll return," she finished, nodding.
"Exactly. If they regroup, they could become even more dangerous. And I don't like unfinished stories."
Evelyne stood, brushing dirt from her gloves. "Then let's write the ending ourselves."
Arin pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested.
Not fully healed.
But enough.
And for now… enough was all he needed.
Together, they stepped into the underbrush, moonlight painting their path in silver.
The hunt wasn't over.
Not yet.