Zirel stood upright, a victory in itself. The stabbing pain in his chest was now just a memory, replaced by a strange sensitivity, as if his ribs had become fragile glass. He could breathe, walk, even attempt a swift movement without the world tipping into white agony. But the fatigue was still there, visceral, hollowing out his face and weighing down his limbs. A healing, yes, but not a restoration. He was a tool hastily repaired, functional but marked by the break.
The others were in a much worse state. Armin stumbled with every step, his arm still useless and painful, clutched against him. Inès, pale and sweating with fever, clenched her teeth to avoid screaming with every movement of her pierced shoulder. They moved forward; that was all that mattered. Maggie and Elisa remained at the head of this procession of wounded, a silent, tense bulwark against the darkness.
