Dylan's sleep was a heavy, dreamless void—a well from which his body drew the frantic energy needed to rebuild what he had sacrificed. When he emerged a few hours later, the sharp pain had faded to a dull ache, a bodily memory of Tonar's agony. The deathly pallor had given way to his usual complexion, and his hands no longer trembled.
Elisa sat beside him, motionless, watching over him like a sentinel. She handed him a bowl of warm broth and a slice of hard bread.
"Eat," she ordered simply.
He obeyed without protest. Each bite was an effort, but he felt strength slowly returning. The tent was silent, lulled by the muffled sounds of the camp preparing for the night.
"Zirel came by," Elisa informed him as he finished his meal. "He gathered the equipment. Ropes, grappling hooks, daggers, dark cloaks. Standard healing potions. Nothing that would draw attention. He seems… different."
