Water splashed violently onto the ground as Asher's body was hauled from the icy depths, the chains clattering like the tolling of some grim bell.
Steam rose in thick white mists from his skin, mingling with the air like the breath of a dying beast. His pale hair, clung to his chest, shoulders, and back, slick with water.
His chest heaved, drawing in great gulps of air as if the very act of breathing had become a battle. His piercing golden eyes, those defiant orbs of fire, remained hidden behind heavy, shut eyelids, too drained to open just yet.
"You have until the sun sets to regain whatever strength you can," I'ron said, his voice firm, steady, a blade sheathed in calm but forged of unyielding steel.
Frost, watching from nearby, only shook his head, his expression a mix of disbelief and resignation.
Without a word, he turned and strode away, leaving the young lord and the war-forged mentor to their brutal ritual.
