Minutes passed, maybe hours. He couldn't tell.
When he opened his eyes again, Nysha was slumped beside him, back against the wall, her chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Her hands still glowed faintly, shadows weaving weakly across his wounds.
She noticed his gaze, but didn't meet it. Her voice was low.
"Do you even know what you did to yourself?"
He swallowed, throat raw. "…Won."
Her head snapped toward him, crimson eyes wide with fury.
"You didn't win!" she shouted, the sound echoing harshly in the chamber. "You barely even stood! If this had been the Sword Saint, you'd already be dead. And not even cleanly. He'd have cut you to pieces while the void dragged what was left of you screaming into nothing!"
Her voice broke, trembling.
"And I'd have to watch."
The weight of that hung heavier than any wound.
Lindarion didn't answer. Not because he agreed, but because he couldn't shape the words around the burning in his chest.
—
