Her lips had the faint, blue-tinged color of someone whose circulation was fighting a losing battle.
She was breathing.
Barely audibly. The slow, careful, shallow breathing of a woman whose body was rationing the effort.
Viktor looked at her.
"Mana reversal," he said.
The words came out flat and immediate — the diagnosis arriving before the examination had formally begun, the way a name arrives when you see a face you already know.
Behind him, Santora made a sound.
Not quite a sound. The near-sound of a man who has been holding a very specific breath for a very long time and has just been given a reason to let part of it go.
