The throne room of Atlantis had become a makeshift infirmary, its obsidian floors stained with blood that refused to wash away. Adam lay unconscious on a bed of sea foam that Mimir had conjured, his chest rising and falling with the labored breathing of someone whose body was fighting to repair damage that should have been fatal.
The star-shaped scar where Gungnir had pierced him pulsed with a faint silver light, each throb sending ripples of healing energy through his torn flesh. But it was slow work—too slow for Mimir's liking.
The ancient jotun knelt beside his patient, his weathered hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. Golden runes flickered into existence around Adam's prone form, each symbol carefully crafted to channel healing energy into specific organs and tissues. The magic hummed with quiet power, a steady counterpoint to Adam's ragged breathing.