The forest clearing had turned into a scene of pure panic and desperation.
Elves and dark elves alike crowded around Sylthara's collapsed body, their knees digging into the torn earth, their hands trembling as they tried to pour potions past her unmoving lips — potions that only spilled uselessly down her chin. Her skin, once glowing with rebellious life, had turned frighteningly pale, the pulse in her neck fading with every moment, like a candle flickering under a storm.
Senior Elowen, hands shaking yet still trying to retain composure, pressed her fingers against Sylthara's throat and gasped, fear openly clawing across her expression.
"Her bodily functions are… shutting down," she whispered, voice cracking. "She can't swallow anything anymore — the herbs, the medicines — they won't work. These potions… they're meant for light wounds, not—"
Her voice broke entirely.
Luca froze for only a fraction of a second — then moved.
Without thinking, without asking, without hesitation.
