Fedlimid's breath came steady now, shallow but no longer slipping. The worst of the bleeding had stopped. The magic Heron had woven through his ribcage was holding. And for all the blood and grime that caked his body, for all the raw violence that had burst from him like something abruptly unburied, he looked, at last, like someone who would survive.
Heron stepped back without another word. The light had faded from his hands. He had done what he came to do. No gesture of triumph. No pretense of generosity. Just the weight of unspoken truths heavy on his shoulders as he turned and walked away, leaving traces of healing magic lingering in the air behind him like fading incense.
