A single droplet of water struck his cheek.
Cold. Sharp. Real.
Master Vince's eyes opened slowly, vision blurred by pain and exhaustion. The ceiling above was made of bark and branches woven together — a rough shelter, dimly lit by a flickering candle. The smell of herbs filled the air, thick with the scent of pine and smoke.
He tried to move his arm—
but there was nothing there.
His right arm ended just above the elbow, wrapped in fresh white bandages stained with faint red. A deep ache pulsed through the stump, spreading like fire through his veins.
Vince gritted his teeth. "...So... I lost it after all."
His voice was hoarse, but calm, the voice of a man who had already accepted death once and still refused to fall.
"You shouldn't be moving."
The voice came from the corner of the hut soft, firm, unmistakably feminine.
Vince turned his head.
There she stood — Mari.
