A warmth—not Zarathorak's burning rage or Frostfang's cold discipline. This was something else. Something whole. It flowed into me like moonlight through shattered glass, soft and unrelenting. It didn't force itself like the others. It asked. It listened.
And for the first time since I collapsed…
My Magicore stopped spasming.
I could breathe—really breathe.
Ingi let out a sound—half disbelief, half relief. "It's working…" he whispered.
Frostfang watched in silence, but even he didn't object. Zarathorak's jaw clenched, but he said nothing either.
Luviyah's hands didn't stop glowing. Her chant didn't falter. Her entire body shook with the sheer energy she was pouring into me. I could see the pain in her face. The effort.
And I realized something.
This spell—it wasn't just rare. It was costly. Dangerous.
She was sacrificing something. A part of herself. For me.
My eyes fluttered open, barely, and for the first time… I saw a tear slip down her cheek.
