Nyxion

I still hated how slow my body felt. A week had passed since the council room mess, but the damn poison still had its claws in me.

The healers called it “steady recovery.” I called it pathetic.

I could walk, talk, even lift my sword for a few minutes before my muscles started trembling like a pup in the snow. Every time I tried to train, my body reminded me it wasn’t mine to command yet. I’d take a few swings, feel the fire in my arms turn to water, and have to stop ...