The silence after the miracle seemed dense, reverent—as if even time respected what had just happened.
But inside Strax... something was wrong.
Very wrong.
His heartbeat was slow, heavy, like muffled hammer blows in a deep cave. His veins burned with the echo of draconic energy, as if embers were running through every inch of his body. His muscles throbbed, and inside, he felt the magical fabric of his soul... stretching.
Tearing.
He gritted his teeth discreetly. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth, but he wiped it away with the back of his hand, as if it were sweat. No one needed to see that. No one needed to worry.
Cristine was still kneeling beside him, examining him with wide eyes. But he wouldn't let her see. Nor Yennifer. And certainly not those people—those who had suffered, who had been saved.
They need hope. Not a broken savior, he thought.
So he forced himself to stand.
