The healing rate flashed again in his system. [Healing rate...8%].
Not bad. Not great. But Fast enough.
Atlas exhaled through his teeth as the mana surge crawled through his muscle fibers, scraping against the infection that still clung to his bones. The potion was holding. Holding tight.
"Ohhh... this is fast. I need to get my hands on some of these," he muttered, crouching briefly beside the healer who hovered anxiously nearby. Her robes smelled of dried herbs and phoenix feather oils, and her hands were trembling around her staff.
Claire was elsewhere—somewhere deeper behind the ridge, preparing fallback lines. Or traps. Or worse. But not here. Not for this part.
The healer hesitated, her voice shaking like cracked glass. "Umm... your highness?"
"Hm?"
"That potion... a-actually, it's from o-our holy kingdom. If you want more... I can make arrangements."
His eyes snapped to her, surprise flickering under his exhaustion.
