Trent's body hit the wall with a thunderous crack, the air crushed out of his lungs.
He slumped to the floor, the remains of his shield clattering beside him—bent, warped, useless now. His arms twitched, chest rising in painful, shallow heaves. The world spun sideways.
He heard Ama scream his name, but it sounded far away.
His ears were ringing again. Worse this time.
Carl was standing exactly where Trent had been a moment ago, arm still half-raised, fingers clenched like iron. There was a faint glow across his knuckles—residual mana, pulsing faintly with rage.
He turned his head, slowly, scanning the group. His eyes were calm now. Cold.
"I'm done asking nicely."
No one dared to move.
Ama crouched beside Trent, grabbing his arm. "Trent—Trent, can you get up? Come on—!"
He tried. He really did.
But his legs wouldn't obey. His ribs screamed with every breath, and one eye had already swollen halfway shut. Still, he chuckled hoarsely.
