Draven released the remaining crystals.
They dropped back to the ground in a small, glowing cluster—an offering of sorts.
The cat didn't hesitate.
It padded forward and began eating them one by one, tiny jaws clicking softly as each core dissolved.
Mana trickled into it.
Small.
Satisfying.
Draven remained kneeling.
Pain still threaded through him.
Not sharp spikes now.
More like a deep, persistent pressure—his body protesting the overload.
Veins that had bulged earlier slowly retreated as his structure forced them back into order.
Blood vessels mended.
Ruptures closed.
He focused on folding the mana.
Again.
And again.
The process was constant.
Nonstop compression.
Nonstop refinement.
It didn't erase the pain completely.
It dulled it.
Made it manageable.
His breathing steadied.
Slow.
Controlled.
Blood still stained his hands and clothing, but the bleeding had slowed.
Drips instead of streams.
He clenched his jaw.
The urge to growl from the discomfort remained, but he held it back.
No sound.
No weakness.
Just work.
Fold.
Compress.
Stabilize.
Each cycle eased the internal strain slightly.
Not instantly.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
The cat finished the remaining crystals and licked its paw, then sat beside him.
Content.
Unbothered.
Draven exhaled.
His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
The pain remained.
But it no longer threatened to overwhelm him.
He opened his eyes.
Faint crimson lingered in their depths—sign of the mana he had absorbed.
Progress.
Always progress.
He looked at the empty space where the crystals had been.
Then at the cat.
The cat blinked.
Then meowed.
Draven didn't smile.
He simply returned to folding the mana.
Stabilizing.
Preparing.
There would be more.
More beasts.
More crystals.
More pressure.
But he would take it.
And grow.
Draven picked up the cat.
It didn't struggle.
It settled in his arms, small and warm against the bloodstained fabric of his clothing.
He rose slowly.
His body still ached.
Not enough to stop him.
He released a thin strand of mana—subtle and controlled—and touched the earring in his ear.
The paired earring would relay the signal.
Vaelith's voice answered a moment later, quiet but clear.
"Yes, my lord."
Draven exhaled.
He kept his tone steady.
"Report."
A pause.
Then Vaelith spoke.
"The children are safe. Sleeping. No disturbances."
Draven's gaze shifted toward the forest.
Good.
That mattered.
More than the battle.
More than the crystals.
His siblings—small and fragile—required protection.
He tightened his grip on the cat slightly, not enough to hurt it.
It meowed softly.
Draven continued.
"Any threats?"
"No, my lord."
Vaelith's voice remained calm.
"We secured the perimeter. Nothing approached."
Draven nodded once, though she couldn't see it.
"Stay alert."
"Yes."
The connection quieted.
Draven lowered his hand.
His eyes flicked toward Aldric.
The blood mage stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression.
"You really worry a lot," Aldric said.
Not mockery.
Observation.
Draven didn't respond immediately.
He adjusted the cat in his arms.
It blinked up at him.
Then yawned.
Draven exhaled slowly.
"They are mine."
Simple.
Direct.
No embellishment.
Aldric smirked faintly.
"Yeah. Figured."
He glanced at the battlefield.
At the fallen trolls.
At the scattered corpses and shattered stone.
"World's full of things that can easily—and want to—kill you."
Draven followed his gaze.
"Fuck off."
Aldric's eyes shifted toward the horizon, where the sun dipped low and painted the forest in long shadows.
"If we're continuing," he said, voice low but edged with concern, "that little rat"—he jabbed a thumb at the cultist—"looks spent."
The cultist's face was pale.
Breathing uneven.
Mana exhaustion creeping in.
He had already triggered multiple disturbances and drunk recovery potions.
His body was hanging on.
Barely.
"If we keep pushing, he won't make it. And the sun's almost gone, so we need to move."
The cultist flinched, shuffling his feet.
"I… I'll be fine, my lord—"
Aldric cut him off with a sharp glance.
"You will not be fine if you can't keep up. If you falter, we don't have the luxury of healing spells. Understand? We're just going to watch you die."
The cultist nodded quickly, eyes wide.
"I understand."
Draven, still holding the cat, didn't look at either of them.
He spoke first, voice quiet but firm.
"We are done. We are going back."
He adjusted the cat in his arms.
Blood still dried on his clothes.
Pain remained.
But the cat rested against him.
And that was enough for now.
The cultist hesitated, then spoke, eyes darting toward the scattered troll corpses.
"Wait… we're just leaving them?"
He pointed at the massive bodies, blue and gray-green flesh lying still in the basin.
"Troll blood is a primary material for healing potions. Their organs, cores—everything—is valuable. You could sell it. Use it."
Aldric glanced at him, unimpressed.
"And why would we need that?" he asked dryly. "Would you give a fish inside a lake more water to drink because you think it's tasty?"
The cultist blinked, then deflated slightly.
"I… I suppose not."
"But it can be sold," he insisted, desperation creeping in. "It's useful. Worth something."
Aldric waved a hand lazily.
"Knock yourself out."
Permission.
The cultist didn't waste a second.
He pulled a space ring from his finger—a small enchanted storage artifact—and activated it. A faint ripple of spatial energy shimmered in the air as the ring opened.
The troll corpses stirred—not alive, but shifting as the artifact's pull began extracting them.
Massive bodies shrank and dissolved into stored space.
First one.
Then another.
Then the next.
Chunks of flesh, bone, and material disappeared into the ring, leaving only faint stains and broken ground behind.
The cultist worked with frantic efficiency, gathering everything he could.
Troll blood.
Organs.
Anything usable.
His hands trembled slightly, but his movements were practiced.
This was not the first time he had scavenged a battlefield.
Aldric watched for a moment, then smirked.
"Look at you," he muttered. "Finally doing something useful."
The cultist ignored the jab, focused entirely on his task.
Draven turned away.
It didn't matter.
The trolls were dead.
The crystals had been taken.
The threat was neutralized—for now.
The forest darkened as the last of the sun disappeared, shadows creeping in.
Draven adjusted the cat in his arms.
Time to go.