The filtered air of his laboratory was a brief comfort, but Kale's situation remained tense.
Near his workbench, his fingers rested on the newly synthesised Terra Shell. The small, turtle-like earth-sap chimaera thrummed with a slow, heavy pulse, its stable earth-attributed energy circulating through his pathways to provide a solid anchor against the silent corruption of his curse.
But beneath the earth element's soothing weight, a sharp throbbing was beginning to intensify against his throat.
Kale reached up, his fingers brushing the edges of the synthetic skin-patch. The tissue was warm, a clear sign his body was actively trying to reject the foreign graft. The mask had less than thirty hours before it would liquefy and peel away, exposing the putrid heretical mark.
