Braydon stirred to the sound of low muttering, a deep frown creasing his brow as a haze clung stubbornly to his thoughts. His memories were a murky blur. Blinking his eyes open, he found two pale faces hovering above him.
"What are you doing?" he muttered, struggling to sit up from the cold, unforgiving floor. His gaze swept across the hall in dazed confusion, as if trying to piece together why he was on the ground in the first place.
Then he saw it—the scorched hole in the rug between his legs.
His brows furrowed sharply. The memory came flooding back with jarring clarity:
Michael.
The ice lance.
The fear.
Color drained from his face, only to return with a vengeance—flushed, red, and burning with shame.
Embarrassment. Rage.
A tangled storm of emotions surged within him.
He turned his furious gaze on Craig and Randolph—the two followers who had abandoned him, left him to face danger alone. Both lowered their heads in guilt, their expressions a silent confession.
