Esme's legs buckled.
Lara caught her before she hit the earth, arms locking around her waist with practiced strength. "Bloody stubborn thing," she muttered, scooping Esme up like she weighed nothing at all.
Her skin was ice-cold, slick with sweat. Whatever pulsed inside her wasn't just poison anymore—it was evolving, burrowing. A faint glow shimmered through her chest, too steady for life, too erratic for death.
Lara moved fast, heart hammering as she darted through the forest's gnarled arteries, navigating by memory and moonlight.
They reached the haven in under an hour.
A hovel buried in moss and illusion, known only to the desperate—or the hunted.
The healer was already waiting.
A man older than shadows, stooped but sharp-eyed, robes layered in talismans and threads of dried blood. His gaze swept over Esme and narrowed, lips parting without breath.
"She looks dead," he said simply.
"Well, she isn't," Lara snapped. "So fix her."
