The rains had ended, but the sky still looked wounded — painted in shades of grey and purple like a bruise that refused to fade.
The ground was still wet, soft mud sticking to Zorawar's boots as he knelt beside the riverbank. In his hands, he held a tiny bird, soaked and shivering. Its feathers were covered in mud. Its small beak opened and closed weakly.
Vyuk stood behind him, arms crossed, watching.
"It's not dying," he said quietly. "It's waiting. Waiting for you to decide if it should live."
Zorawar didn't reply. He stared at the bird silently, feeling something stir in his chest — not anger, not fear, but a strange kind of… purpose.
Two beast cores hovered in his palm.
One glowed faintly blue — a Glimmerfin, a harmless river beast known for cleaning dirty water.
The other shimmered with soft white light — a Wind-Wisp Wren, a bird famous for its speed and flight control.
Zorawar breathed in… and fused them.
There was no bright flash, no rumble in the air.
