I knelt beside the warrior, my heart pounding. Papa’s soul-binding had drained me more than I’d admitted. But this was different. This was flesh and bone, not spirit threads.
I placed my hands over the wound, drawing slowly on the Moon-root’s echo still embedded in my veins. Silver light flickered weakly between my fingers, hesitant, unstable.
The warrior hissed in pain.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Just don’t fail.”
The magic surged — not from me, but through me. Blackfang’s territorial energy coiled around my silver threads, darkening them, strengthening them. It felt… heavier. More demanding.
The bleeding slowed.
The torn flesh knitted partially, sealing just enough to stop the immediate danger.
I collapsed back on my heels, dizzy, sweat beading at my temples.
The warrior exhaled shakily. “Damn… it worked.”
Not completely.
But enough.
A murmur rippled through the cavern — not applause, not praise, but acknowledgement.
Nicero studied me for a long moment. “You didn’t heal him the Silvermoon way.”
“I don’t think I remember how anymore,” I admitted.
“Good,” he said. “Because that way would have killed him.”