Time passed like a silent tide.
When Altharion opened his eyes, the world seemed to breathe again.
The ceiling of Azalith's infirmary greeted him—or what remained of it. The cracks had been sealed with healing mana, and the air was heavy with a faint scent of herbs, mixed with the metallic touch of purifying incense. There was a soft, constant sound of stabilization spells being recited somewhere in the distance.
He blinked a few times, trying to understand.
The last thing he remembered was the Core pulsing in despair. The sound of collapse. The pain burning in his chest. The dark figure of Kael walking towards him.
And then—nothing.
At first, he thought he was dead.
But the weight of his body contradicted that. The cold of the floor beneath the bed. The rough texture of the sheet.
He was alive.
It took a few seconds before he noticed the detail.
His arm.
His left hand.
He raised it, trembling. The arm he had lost—torn off by the very energy of the Core—was now there.
