The assassin's breath quickened until it became a frantic rasp. His chest heaving as though he were drowning on dry land.
Sharp and suffocating panic clawed through him. His heart hammered wildly and thundering in his ears as sweat ran cold down his skin.
Worst of all, he could do nothing. His body betrayed him and paralyzed by the emptiness of his Magic energy.
He lay sprawled on the forest floor, every second stretching into agony. His limbs twitched uselessly. The weakness in them was so profound as if it mocked his will to do something.
All he could do was wait for his body to restore even the tiniest spark of Magic. And the waiting itself was like a torment.
Shadows pressed close. Every rustle of leaves and every crack of branches in the dark felt like it made him closer to death in his panicked mind.
