The world shrank to the size of the wound on Shi's arm. It was a ugly, vicious thing. The creature's pincer had torn a chunk out of his forearm, and the venom that had pumped into him was a living darkness. It was a black, spiderwebbing infection that crept through his veins, fighting my light with a cold, patient malice. My healing energy was a golden river, and the venom was a slick of oil, poisoning the water, turning it murky and grey.
I poured everything I had into him. I forgot the cold, the wind, the lingering scent of ozone. I forgot the fear. There was only the struggle beneath my hands. It was a battle fought in the silent, microscopic world of his flesh. My power would knit the torn muscle and skin together, and the venom would unravel it, a dark, necrotic thread pulling at the seams of my work.
