Annan watched closely as Zyren moved with unhurried precision, his crimson gaze fixed on the fallen Zygons.
They lay sprawled on the ground, their monstrous forms twitching faintly, unable to move even a muscle though their eyes still flickered with desperate awareness.
It was clear they would rather flee, but Zyren's presence anchored them to helpless silence.
With deliberate patience, Zyren crouched beside the first of the creatures and pressed his hand against its chest.
Annan swallowed, his throat tight as he saw fingers slide with impossible ease through flesh and bone as though the body were made of clay. A faint glow seeped through Zyren's hand—black light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
One by one, Zyren pulled out smooth, gleaming orbs the color of midnight. Magic stones. Each pulsed faintly with power, as though alive.
