Somewhere far from the battlefield, Siegfried gasped for air, his entire body wracked with pain as he lay motionless on the cold, blood-soaked ground. Every breath he took felt like knives slicing through his lungs, and his limbs refused to obey him. The once-proud warrior, the so-called Dragon Slayer, was reduced to a barely-breathing corpse, his armor shattered beyond recognition, his body drenched in his own blood.
Beside him, Ignisar knelt, struggling to maintain consciousness. His flames, once an unstoppable inferno that could incinerate cities, had dwindled to weak embers barely clinging to life. The teleportation spell had saved them—just barely—but even so, it felt like a hollow victory. The wounds they bore were more than just physical. They had been utterly defeated.
