Rachel exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing intricate patterns of golden light in the air. Purelight—the rarest and most powerful healing magic—flowed from her hands into Deia's injured shoulder where the Priest's corruption spell had left an angry, pulsing wound.
"Stop fidgeting," Rachel murmured, her concentration absolute as the threads of light knitted damaged tissue and purged the lingering corruption.
Deia bit her lip, suppressing a wince. "Sorry. Just... hurry. They need us."
The distant sounds of battle echoed through the ancient stone passageways—metal against metal, the distinctive crack of astral energy, the unnatural hiss of blood magic. Somewhere ahead, Arthur and Lucifer were fighting for their lives.
"Done," Rachel announced, the golden light fading as she completed the healing. She looked pale, the effort of channeling Purelight taking its toll, but determination burned in her eyes.
