The night air of Vaelith, usually perfumed with the sweet, ethereal aroma of Light-Bloom flowers, now bit into Dayat's lungs like thousands of icy needles. As their feet crossed the threshold of the waste disposal lift onto the open plaza of the World Tree's lower branches, the brief sensation of freedom was immediately eclipsed by a harsh, cold reality.
Dayat paused for a fleeting second, closing his eyes as the night wind whipped against a face caked in prison dust and dried blood. But there was no peace to be found. Every breath he took now carried the sharp residue of raw Mana and a hatred that had begun to crystallize into a cold, iron resolve within his chest.
"Dayat... your shoulder... the blood," Lunethra whispered. Her voice trembled, thick with a concern that bordered on desperation. She had only just reclaimed her staff, but her eyes remained fixed on the jagged, weeping gash left by Veyron's blade.
