Then he leans back, resting against the tree's pulsing root as the potion burns through him.
The healing is slow. Painful. Not clean. It has to be that way—his body is stitched, broken, rebuilt a dozen times over. The potion knits together torn muscle, reinforces fractured bones, and tamps down the spreading corruption from his last battle.
A tremor runs through Gander's limbs as the potion finishes its grim work, leaving behind a throbbing ache deep in his joints. He doesn't move for a moment. Just breathes. The green orbs in his eye sockets dim, then flare again—steady now.
He mutters to himself, voice low and rough like dry bark scraping stone.
"I'm really lucky to be alive."
The statement hangs in the air, bitter as blood. He reaches beneath his tattered robes, pulling out a small object from a hidden inner pouch—a warped silver locket, dull and scorched at the edges, its clasp fused shut. Arcane sigils are etched deep into its frame, faintly pulsing with residual light.
