The tent canvas, a robust structure reinforced with snow spider silk threads, creaked under the siege of a gust that seemed to bring with it the wail of centuries. The sound was not just wind; it was the harsh scraping of ice crystals against rock, a constant reminder that nature in this corner of the world knew no mercy. Lloyd opened his eyes with a heavy slowness, feeling each eyelid weigh a ton. During those first seconds of consciousness, he limited himself to watching the tent ceiling, where shadows danced to the rhythm of the light filtering through the seams.
The exhaustion was not superficial. The combat against the giant king had not only depleted his spiritual energy reserves but had seeped into the very marrow of his bones. His arms felt like lead, his back was crossed by a stabbing stiffness and, upon inhaling deeply, a pressure in his chest reminded him that his lungs were still recovering from the rarefied and lethargic atmosphere of the ice fortress.
