The sound of Luke's ragged breathing echoed softly in the vast, lifeless cavern. He tried to push himself up, just slightly—just enough to lean his back against the nearest rock—but the moment his muscles tightened, a searing pain jolted through his shoulder and ribs.
"Ah—shit," he hissed, teeth gritting as the sharp agony surged down his side. His hand clutched instinctively at his chest, right where the broken fragments of the Heart of Iridescent had been pressed into him. His pulse thudded unevenly beneath his palm, a grim reminder of how close he'd been to death.
Ilyrana, who had been sitting near his side, immediately moved closer, concern flooding her voice.
"How bad is it?" she asked. "Tell me honestly."
Luke forced a dry, crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Bad enough that I'll be needing Saint Cynthia's touch to fix me up," he murmured. "Assuming she still has any power left in her, of course."
