🛡️
The question hung in the tunnel air like smoke from dying torches. Rhys stared at the grey-robed figure—this impossible student who had dissected a three-century-old shaman like a particularly dull textbook problem. His shoulder throbbed where claws had torn through muscle, and every breath sent fresh spikes of pain through his cracked ribs.
Everything. The word echoed in his mind, carrying weight that made his injuries feel trivial by comparison. This stranger was asking for his soul, wrapped in the promise of power enough to save Elara. To never again watch helplessly as stronger people decided his fate.
"I..." Rhys's voice cracked. The tunnel walls seemed to press closer, heavy with the scent of goblin blood and something else—something that reminded him of winter mornings when Elara couldn't get warm no matter how many blankets they piled on her bed. "Yes."
