Dila and Fran walked slowly toward the long, rune-etched table where Zib had carefully laid out the potions.
The air around the tray shimmered faintly from the magic they gave off—glass vials glowing in varying hues. Some pulsed like a heartbeat: soft blue, sharp green, and even a deep, ominous red. The scents of bitter herbs and sweet-sour mana lingered in the air, sharp enough to sting the nose.
Dila's boots clicked quietly against the polished stone floor. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the tray with cold focus. Arms crossed over her chest, she exhaled sharply.
"…Does this really have enough strength to take him down?" she asked, her voice low and serious. "I don't have time. It's already midday… the sun's past its peak. We're nearly out of hours."
There was no fear in her voice—just frustration. A dull, weary urgency like someone who had fought too long.
Zib looked away, shoulders tightening under his coat. He let out a small sigh.
