The snow was still falling when the crowd finally dared to move.
Slow at first, hesitant, boots crunching over broken stone as they crept closer to where Lexel stood, chest heaving, Caladbolg still dripping in his hand. Nobody spoke. Nobody wanted to be the one to break whatever silence still held the air together.
Lexel turned around.
He let them look.
Blood soaked through what remained of his sleeves, streaked down his jaw, dried in places and fresh in others. His breathing came ragged, shoulders rising and falling hard, but he was standing. Very clearly, impossibly, standing.
Anthierin was the first to reach him, though her steps faltered a few feet away, like some part of her still expected this to be an illusion that might shatter if she got too close.
"You're..." she started, then stopped, unsure which word even belonged at the end of that sentence.
