Dican kept moving through the night. His steps were heavy, uneven, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Each footfall sent a sharp jolt up his leg, the pain in his thigh growing worse with every minute. It burned deep—hot, almost acidic—as if something inside was actively working against him. The wound wasn't healing. No matter how many hours passed, no matter how much Farian endurance he relied on, the gash stayed open, throbbing and angry.
He winced, gritting his teeth. His hand pressed firmly against the injury, trying to keep pressure on it, but it did little. A slick warmth coated his palm—blood. Too much of it. He shouldn't have still been bleeding. Farian wounds usually closed quickly, sometimes within minutes. This… this wasn't normal.
He didn't understand. His body was rejecting the wound like it didn't belong to him, like it was something foreign infecting him from the inside out.
But he had no time to figure it out.
