Silence.
That was all that was left after the storm of panic, desperation, and grief. The dark chamber that once echoed with Ilyrana's trembling cries now sat still—eerily still. The elf had done everything she could think of, everything that desperation whispered into her heart. The fragments of the broken heartstone were gone from the floor, each one buried deep within Luke's wounds, pressed in by her trembling fingers and frantic prayers. She had no idea if it would work, if what she'd done was salvation or folly.
But now that all was done, she sat beside him, motionless, staring at the faint rise and fall of his chest—weak, uneven, barely there. Her breath quivered as the realisation sank in: she had nothing left to try. No magic. No ancient rite. Nothing.
Her strength broke.
