Ren was on his knees beside Thorn, hands trembling as he pressed them against his friend's blood-soaked chest.
His breathing was shallow, his pulse weak. Bone jutted through his side, and his blood—so much blood—pooled beneath him, turning his now inert cloak and the rubble beneath it a deep red.
"Thorn?" Ren whispered, voice cracking.
There was no response. Only the faintest flutter of breath.
He looked around, wild-eyed, desperate.
Think. Think. Think, Ren! There has to be a way.
Then it hit him.
His final card.
He still had six uses left.
Ren's hand shot upward, fingers shaking as he shouted into the ashen wind. "I want to use one of my healings!"
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the world… shifted.
The smoke thickened unnaturally, curling inward, folding like hands around an invisible shape. The shadows bent and twisted, wrapping around something, drawing breath into emptiness. The fog parted, not away from the wind, but towards something.
