Darian stood at the edge of the ancient ruins, his cloak soaked from the morning rain, the scent of blood and stone still clinging to the mist. Behind him, the broken remnants of the demon horde lay scattered, twitching, fading into ash. The battle at the Temple of Varnak had taken a toll—not just on his body, but on his soul. He could feel it—the creeping darkness whispering louder now, as though claiming its debt.
But he didn't look back.
"You're bleeding," said Elira, stepping over a crushed gargoyle. Her voice was soft but strained, breathless from the fight. She reached for him, her slender fingers trembling.
Darian glanced down at the wound slashed across his ribs. "It'll hold," he muttered. He couldn't afford to stop. Not now.
Elira frowned, brushing her silver-blonde hair from her face. "You always say that."
