Dican blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the young man standing in front of him. The human looked barely older than a teen, awkward in his posture, hands wringing nervously in front of him. His features were soft, unsure—yet unmistakably kind.
But Dican didn't have time for this.
He couldn't afford to stand here, not when Bian could still be out there… waiting.
And yet—
His leg throbbed beneath him. The golden liquid dripped steadily into the hay, pooling slightly around his foot. His muscles felt like lead and every breath came heavier than the last. Even he didn't understand why his body was reacting like this.
The wound wasn't supposed to be this deep. Or this persistent.
It didn't make sense.
With a frustrated sigh, Dican raised a hand to his forehead and pressed his palm against the sweat-dampened skin.
"I can't let him wait for so long…" he muttered under his breath. "I need to get to him."
