Dax's eyes blinked, not once but twice.
As that small gesture happened, Nyra's heart clutched tight, like it might stop altogether. Her mind raced—burning with the weight of pain, yet overflowing with sheer happiness she could hardly contain.
Dax was alive. Breathing.
Those two blinks were more than a movement. They were a miracle. A message. Proof that he hadn't slipped away, that fate hadn't stolen him yet.
Hope rushed through her body, traced like fire through every vein, like lightning crawling across a stormed sky. Her knees weakened under its force, but she didn't care. Her chest ached, but it wasn't from despair anymore—it was from joy too big for her to hold.
She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry all at once. The blood, the wounds, the fear of losing him—it all blurred into nothing. Those eyes, even barely opening, even flickering in weakness, were brighter than the whole battlefield around her.
In that fragile moment, Dax wasn't just alive—he was everything.
