The echo of the ritual's ignition still lingered in the air. He could still taste the first wave of copper-sweet energy as it rolled off her.
Not even one minute had passed. And yet she had endured thousands of years of suffering.
There was a long road ahead.
----
Lan opened his eyes.
The cold weight of the physical plane pressed back onto his senses. The scent of stone and candle wax replaced the endless darkness of his spiritual domain. His blade — a length of congealed crimson — still rested deep in Iris's chest.
She was pale, motionless, lips parted as though caught mid-breath. The faint shimmer of spiritual tethering webbed around the wound, threads of energy binding her to something far away.
Lan withdrew his hand from the hilt but did not remove the blade.
"She's stable," he said, voice low.
Seraphine stood across the table, her face unreadable but her hands tense at her sides. The light from the hanging lanterns caught on her golf hair as she stepped closer.
