Lucavion's room was quiet—dim, but not dark. The curtains were drawn just enough to let the afternoon light bleed through, casting soft gold along the desk, the far wall, the edge of the bed he hadn't touched since morning.
The mana potion bottle was still uncapped, its contents nearly gone, and the faint medicinal tang still lingered in the air.
He sat on the edge of the bed, one arm braced against his knee, the other unfastening the remaining strap of his coat with careful precision. He winced—not dramatically, just the kind of wince you made when your body reminded you it hadn't forgotten what you'd dragged it through.
The potion helped. But not enough.
His ribs still ached in that dull, blooming way that said something had definitely cracked under the strikes. The burns had numbed down to a manageable throb. The cuts, mostly closed. But the strain… the exhaustion… that was still very much present.
Not just from the spells, but from what he'd had to hold in.
