Pain was the first thing he was aware of.
Not the sharp, screaming kind that came with sudden injury, but the slow, gnawing agony of being torn down piece by piece. A dull throb in his wings, burning welts along his flanks.
The kind of pain that didn't just scream—it whispered. Whispered things like failure. Like shame. Like you should've stopped them. It had a voice now, and it sounded like every regret he'd ever buried beneath fire and fang.
Val's eyes fluttered open, vision swimming in hues of ash and blood. He tried to move—a twitch of one clawed foot, a shift of his spine—but the moment his muscles tensed, white-hot pain seared through him.
The enchantment bit back.
He stilled, panting through his snout. Every breath filled his lungs with the iron tang of his own blood.
