Shellia's breath came in shallow bursts, her lashes trembling as the glow of the gods faded from her skin. The staff slipped from her fingers and clattered to the stone. All at once, the weight of everything—two gods' blessings, the battle, the purification—dragged her into darkness.
"She's collapsing!" Isyra dropped to one knee, her hands already glowing silver and black in a weak attempt to soothe Shellia's depleted mana. "She's burned herself completely out."
["Master, her spiritual threads are fraying,"] Yuki's airy voice drifted from the emerald wind still circling the plaza. ["She needs rest and sanctified air. Not another fight."]
"I can carry her," Veyra said, stepping forward with her skeletal gauntlet half-raised. "We should take her back to the Duke's estate immediately—"
