Someone actually died

Cough!

Gaah!

Aelorin hunched his back and let out a torrent of blood from his mouth, painting the ground beneath him in crimson streaks. His breaths came shallow and labored, each one rasping like sandpaper against his throat. The air was thick, oppressive, almost alive, clinging to his skin like acid. He writhed as if countless unseen hands were pressing fiery needles into every inch of his flesh. It wasn't just pain—it was despair, coiling and unrelenting.

His face twisted into a mask of agony, the muscles twitching uncontrollably as though rebelling against his very existence. His gaze dropped to his hands, dangling uselessly from his shoulders. They were a grotesque horror of exposed bone, charred and cracked flesh pulsating with a sickening rhythm. His fingers, or what was left of them, quivered as if trying to detach themselves from his body.