Thran, Braka, and Valen stood over him, barely upright. Their appearances were a mess—blood-stained and ragged.
Braka pressed a trembling hand against the wound carved into his chest, his other hand gripping his spear for support as he leaned heavily against it. Despite his efforts, the bleeding showed no sign of stopping. The cut wasn't even that deep, yet it bled as though he had sustained a life-threatening injury.
Beside him, Thran stood bruised and battered. His feet swayed, and he stumbled to the ground. Catching himself, he thrust his sword deep into the earth and crouched, leaning his weight against it to keep from collapsing.
Valen fared no better. He had sunk to one knee, blood trickling down his forearm, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls.
Despite clinging to consciousness, none of them dared land the final blow. It would have been wiser to end it—even if it meant killing their friend.
