Strax walked across the devastated field.
The ground was still smoking, pockmarked with craters and dried blood. The air smelled of burnt iron and rot, and his every step made the fragments of reality shift, as if even the island was afraid to breathe too close.
Then he stopped.
His eyes narrowed, his aura instinctively wavering around his body like a contained storm.
There, lying on the ash-soaked ground, was Daniela.
Her body seemed intact, but something was wrong. Very wrong. Her fingers still gripped the sword tightly, as if even unconscious, she refused to let go. Her chest heaved in irregular intervals, and beads of sweat trickled down her forehead. But what was most striking was her closed, tense gaze—as if she were trapped somewhere other than this.
"Daniela…" Strax murmured, his voice deep, carrying a weight only someone who had destroyed worlds could carry. He knelt beside her, his hand hesitating for a moment before resting on her shoulder.
