"Heal."
As the word left his lips, the ring on Azhriel's finger glowed softly. A gentle green light spread over his body, warm and soothing.
The pain faded like mist in the morning sun. His burned hand regained its color, his ribs no longer ached, and the deep ache inside his inside his internal organs slowly eased.
That was the power of an SS-ranked artifact.
But even such a powerful item had limits. His tiredness didn't fade, and his drained mana remained the same. The wounds were gone, but the fatigue stayed buried in his bones.
Azhriel stood up, flexing his fingers before clenching them tight. He focused inward, feeling the pulsing flow of mana in his core.
'I've got less than half left,' he thought grimly. His eyes lifted to Kerip, who stood across the ruined inn, dark lightning dancing over his skin.
Frostborn shimmered in Azhriel's grip, its form shifting back into a sword.
He tightened his hold.
