High above the island, on the jagged peak that crowned its center, Alex stood with the wind howling around him like a living thing. The salty air whipped past his coat, tugging at his long, yellow-golden hair as he stared toward the horizon.
The wind had shifted, stronger than before, more insistent.
It came from the direction of Europe.
Three weeks had passed since he first arrived here. His body, though still battered, had mostly mended. The deep wounds—punctured organs, shattered ribs—were slow to knit, even for someone at the Grandmaster level. Without high-grade potions or spiritual elixirs, time was the only healer. And for warriors like him, time was both a blessing and a threat.
Nyxara lay draped lazily across his broad shoulders, her small feline body rising and falling with his steady breath. The tigress had practically claimed his shoulder as her throne, watching the horizon with the same cold patience he carried in his heart.
