The wax candle placed at the corner of the weathered wooden table flickered violently as a draft swept through the gaps in the attic walls. The flame had burned down significantly, leaving a pool of translucent liquid that threatened to extinguish the small light entirely. Zeven sat perfectly still on a low wooden stool, his broad shoulders casting a massive, looming shadow against the cracked plaster behind him. The stinging in his shoulder had subsided into a dull, throbbing ache, a sign that his mutated biology was finally neutralising the traces of silver Lyra had meticulously extracted. The air in the cramped room remained thick with the scent of dried herbs, bitter medicinal roots, and the damp earth from the storm outside.
"You heal much faster than anyone I have ever seen before,"
