The Glassbone Warden would not fall quietly.
It dragged itself forward on one ruined leg, ichor pouring from the split in its neck. The dark fluid slid along the carved grooves in the stone, then was pulled inward, drawn toward the shallow depression in the center of the room.
Rhaen watched that, chest heaving.
The sword felt like a bar of lead in her hands. Her arms shook. Her lungs burned every time she pulled in air. Pain flared in her ribs with every breath, a hot, sharp reminder that she was moving because habit forced her to, not because her body still wanted to.
Crystals that had shaken loose from the Warden's plates rolled and clicked across the floor, small cores glowing faintly as the spiral lines dragged them in. The whole room felt like it had started to breathe with the dying boss.
"You're not allowed to get back in your hole," she rasped.
