Hours had passed since the mission's failure. The infirmary was heavy with silence—thicker than the smoke that had choked the battlefield. No one had the energy to speak. Their wounds healed but their spirits weren't.
They lay there—Zack, Zino, Szedra, Lanse, and Tess, conscious—each guardian staring at the ceiling, wondering one thing: How long was it going to take to eliminate the Elites.
Lanse was the first to rise, stiff and haunted. He didn't speak. Zack trembled still, the memory of Szedra's headless body flashing every time he closed his eyes.
Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, "Well... dinner isn't going to make itself."
No one laughed.
In the kitchen, Zino chopped vegetables absentmindedly, her eyes blank. Then, slowly, she turned to Szedra.
"I didn't imagine it," she said. "She hit me—with dark mana. Like them."
Szedra froze mid-reach. "Tess?"
