Helena descended. Her wings, once magnificent displays of elemental power, now looked like tattered shrouds, folding inward in slow, dissipating streamers of wind that hissed as they touched the air.
She didn't land with the grace of a prodigy; she fell. Her boots struck the torn grass with a wet stumble, her knees buckling beneath the sheer weight of her magical exhaustion.
She caught herself on one hand, fingers digging into the blood-soaked soil, before forcing herself upright.
Her chest heaved in ragged, desperate spasms. Her face was a mask of soot, sweat, and tear tracks that left pale streaks through the grime.
She was shaking not just a tremor but a violent, full-body convulsion that made her silhouette blur against the horizon. Her eyes, wide and wild with a terrifying mixture of triumph and horror, remained locked on the smoking furrow where Rex lay.
"You said nothing could kill you!" she screamed.
