The ruins gave them shelter for a single night.
They camped in what had once been a cathedral, its roof half-collapsed, its stained glass shattered into a mosaic of shards on the floor. Through the broken ceiling, the stars watched like patient witnesses.
Leon sat apart from the fire, gauntlet resting on his knee, the cracks along his arm faintly glowing with residue from the Sixth Pulse. He turned his hand slowly, flexing his fingers as if they weren't his own. Every motion hurt—not the sharp pain of wounds, but the deep, echoing ache of a body forced beyond its law.
Roselia approached quietly, carrying a small bowl of herbal mixture. She set it beside him, her voice gentle. "You won't let me heal the fractures directly. At least drink this. It'll keep your blood from burning itself out."
Leon gave a faint smile, took the bowl, and sipped. The bitterness was grounding. "…Thanks."
