Moments later, Sapphira sat silently at the edge of a grand, king-sized bed, its frame carved with the symbols of ancient pacts and victories long past. But there was no triumph here.
She gazed at the man lying still beneath the heavy quilt—his white hair clinging to his clammy forehead, his breaths shallow and too far apart. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over his skin, deathly pale and marred by patches where flesh had festered and been scraped away, now covered by pungent herbs pressed into torn muscle. The apothecary had done all he could. And still, nothing.
A hollow ache gnawed at her chest as understanding finally dawned—his body wasn't just resisting treatment, it was rejecting force itself. The herbs, laden with natural force, had no effect. Magic, even her own essence, seemed to drift uselessly around him, like sunlight against iron.
It was as if Asher had chosen not to return. As if something deep within him had already stepped past the threshold.
