A vortex hung in the sky.
Enormous, pulling everything toward it. Heavy clouds churned around its edge. Deep inside, violet flashes tore through the dark.
Space warped. The forest beneath it trembled. Tree lines bent. Everything was stretched thin—even sound became muffled.
Mana gathered all around.
So much of it that it became visible—just look up.
Thin currents drifted through the air, streaming in every direction. Transparent waves slid between trees, curling around trunks, weaving higher, intertwining with one another. When the strands collided, they shivered and snapped.
At the vortex's center, a sphere began to take form.
Black, ragged-edged. Every new flash seared the air around it, making the sphere clearer. The pull of mana grew stronger. It seemed to feed on it—growing more powerful with every pulse.
A cave stretched out from the cliffside.
Its stone walls were damp, streaked with sparse moss clinging to cracks. Cold moisture crept along the floor, droplets falling from the ceiling, breaking against the rocks.
Roxy sat against the wall.
Eyes closed. Head slightly bowed.
Rudy stood at the entrance, staring into the gray light. Violet lightning flickered across the cave's arch, casting brief reflections across the stone.
"How are you?" he asked.
Roxy's lips moved faintly.
"…"
The rumble outside grew stronger. The vibration rolled through the walls, across the ground.
"We won't last long like this," he said, turning back.
She slowly lifted her eyelids, met his eyes. The corner of her lips twitched—but no words followed.
Dust trickled from the ceiling. The cave shuddered. Rudy instinctively leaned forward, shielding her with his body.
"Hold on!"
I turned toward the entrance.
We were lucky—this cave happened to be along our path. If we'd stayed out there, in the open, we'd have been…
I shook my head sharply. No use finishing that thought.
I turned to Roxy. She looked awful. Her breathing was heavy, every exhale coming with a faint rasp.
I knelt beside her.
Carefully reached out. The skin on her neck was cold, damp with sweat. A faint steam rose—or maybe it was just the flicker of lightning outside. I adjusted her cloak to cover her shoulder. My fingers lingered a second at her collarbone—her pulse was barely there.
"Can you hear me?"
No response.
I searched for the bag, found the strap half-buried under a rock. Torn open, half the contents spilled. Flask—empty. Some amulet cracked, one half barely hanging on. With a snap it broke apart. Useless junk. I lifted her arm to slide the bag under her head and heard the joints crack—lightly, almost without resistance. Too light for a living body.
Her one open eye was half-closed, the gaze wandering, unfocused. The pupil drifted slowly. A dark spot of blood pulsed on her cheek.
Outside, the vortex's rumble rolled through the stone; a fissure along the ceiling lengthened. Dust settled on her hair, but she didn't even blink.
How did a walk through the forest turn into this?
A few hours ago, I'd have lost my mind already—screamed myself hoarse. But so much had happened, my thoughts felt detached from everything. It was like watching through a fogged window.
I looked at Roxy. If I don't do something—she'll die. But what could I do? We had nothing.
She was barely there anymore. Unconscious. Fevered. Her lips moved, but I couldn't make out words. Eyelids trembling. Breathing ragged. Rare. Her skin was ice.
The vortex never stopped. Every shockwave in the forest reached here, under the stone. The cave quaked, dust rained, and I waited—wondering if the next collapse would seal the entrance.
Sand trickled from a crack overhead. The stone groaned, echoing through the walls. Roxy's breathing grew weaker. Every time she paused, I froze, waiting for her chest to rise again.
I crouched closer to the wall, fists clenched till my knuckles whitened. And still—I didn't know what to do.
Are we just going to die here?
The thought slipped out. My throat was dry. My tongue stuck to my palate. My mind blank. No plan. Not even the illusion of one.
Roxy lay still. Lips parted. Her hand had slid off her knee, limp against the stone.
Something crashed above. The cave shook; my back pressed into the cold wall. I closed my eyes, as if that could make it stop.
No help is coming.
The thought pierced through me.
No one will help us.
No one knows where we are.
No one could reach us through the hell outside.
The vortex will swallow everything. The forest. The cave. Us. Even if we somehow survive—it won't matter.
I watched Roxy. Her chest barely moved. Each breath seemed like it could be her last.
I clenched my teeth. Every part of me wanted to run—but there was nowhere to go.
"Fuck!"
The shout ripped out of me on its own.
I slammed my hand down. The skin on my fingers was torn, cut, filthy. Blood welled, mixing with the dried crust, sliding down my wrist.
Impact.
My fist struck the stone—bones popped in my palm. The sound echoed through the walls.
I glanced at my hand. Blood seeped in thin lines, filling the cracks with grime. My fingers trembled. Still clenched.
I knew what I had to do.
Healing magic.
I'd studied it so long with Zenith. The church kind. Rehearsed every night until the words became habit.
But I still remembered that bird. Its wounds. And how I tried to heal it.
I lost control.
The wounds I meant to close had deepened. The flesh split wider, edges blackened, blood gushed. I tried to contain the flow—but the energy turned back on itself. My mistake made its death slow and cruel.
Zenith always said: even the slightest error, and you'll only make it worse. She was right.
My gaze fell to Roxy.
If I use magic…
My body shook.
Nausea rose inside me. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. My throat tightened. Breathing came rough and sharp.
She was so close. And I knew one wrong move would only hasten the end.
If it fails…
I'll kill her.
***
He lay in the wet soil, pressed down by the storm's gusts. The wind howled, branches shrieking at the edge of hearing.
His left arm ended at the shoulder in a ragged hole.
Bone glimmered faintly there, but there was no blood. The flesh had dried to a gray film. The chest was torn open, as if split from within; rib shards gleamed in the meat.
From his right arm, dark veins crawled along his body, digging into muscle, vanishing under the skin.
At the end—a sword, fused into bone. From its hilt, the same black veins spread like vessels.
The body didn't move.
Muscles locked, joints frozen mid-strain, as if in the last effort before death. The wind pelted it with splinters and clods of dirt. Between the veins, faint spasms twitched—like lingering impulses.
For any man, this would have been the end.
No one survives such wounds.
But Edgar no longer belonged to the living.
Flash!
The sword sparked—a short discharge. Runes flared along the blade, and the veins filled with dark liquid. They swelled, shifted, burrowing into flesh. A swarm of tremors crawled beneath the skin.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound came from within.
The sword quivered. A thin spark ran from the hilt through the bone and under the skin. The body jerked. Movement began where the flesh had torn: dry tissue darkened, then swelled. A thick gel-like mass oozed out, hardening into the first layer.
Beneath it, a second stratum thickened. Fibers stretched inward, linking to remnants of muscle. The seams sealed, and the surface smoothed. A line of stitching marked the collarbone; then the shoulder grew new tissue.
Bone ridges pushed up from his chest, growing in rows, fusing into a solid plate. His neck cracked—a jolt ran down the spine. Vertebrae enlarged, forcing up a fin-like crest. The skin split, then resealed with a new layer.
Segments formed down his back, each locking with a click. Shoulders broadened; muscles beneath the plates pulsed, pumping the dark liquid through his veins. The wounds vanished.
When the final click faded, his chest lifted—and breath returned.
He opened his eyes.
His irises glowed the same hue as the sword's runes. A heartbeat later, a plate slid over them, sealing the light away.