The Crimson Night
The wolven form faded into dull mist.
Elijah's ribs and his heart were entirely crushed underneath the spear. He was gone, just like that, and the weapon of pure darkness remained firm with an overwhelming chill.
Aesther did not want to move, she could not.
Her soul still remembered the excruciating pain of that same spear she had faced in her former life, she was frozen with crippling anxiety about everything that happened.
The war.
The blood.
A neverending dance of death.
But as her gaze moved back at Merakh, something inside let out a beastly roar. He was vulnerable now.
She ripped herself away from those miserable memories and strode towards him. If there was one thing Aesther had entirely mastered, it was the flow of mana.
It aided her in healing.