It's just that she was a bit curious and wanted to see if it was still here, as she was the one who had been healing him for the past few days.
She looked at Sol, then looked down at his stomach, staring directly at the angry pink scar.
The old shaman muttered something rapid and guttural in the old tribal tongue to the two younger acolytes standing behind her. They both leaned in, their eyes widening in pure, unfiltered shock as they stared at Sol.
The lead shaman looked back at his face. Her expression had shifted from clinical detachment to something dangerously close to awe.
"Honestly looking at this wound, you should be dead," the old woman said. His Veynar common tongue was heavily accented but clear. "When the Warchief's daughter dragged you into the inner rings, your core was an empty void. You had completely burned your own essence, Your veins were scorching hot, cracking under the strain."
The shaman pointed a long, bony finger at the scar on Sol's stomach.
