Still, none of that mattered now.
What mattered was that it was over.
And even more importantly… the lingering suspicion that his talent—his power—might work on more than just undead sent a wave of indescribable emotion crashing through him.
Slowly, like someone emerging from a dream, Michael raised his head.
Around him, his undead stood in perfect silence.
Not a groan, not a shuffle—just silent vigilance.
They were intelligent enough to mimic concern… and right now, every single one of them looked like they were holding their breath.
Michael forced himself to speak. His throat burned.
"I'm… okay."
The moment he spoke, a shift passed through the group. Subtle, but there.
Muscles relaxed. Claws lowered.
Even the tension in the air seemed to lessen.
Michael pushed himself upright.
Every joint protested, but his strength returned quickly—far faster than before.
The sharp ache dulled almost instantly, replaced by a strange, calm warmth radiating through his limbs.
