Galen didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on the scorched ruin beneath his boot—Mourne, a twitching, half-burnt mess barely holding together beneath the weight of the burning myst. Then he turned to Liam, his expression cool and unreadable.
"…If there are more like him, then Sylvathar's already sunk his claws into Amthar deeper than we thought."
"Yeah," Liam muttered, brushing ash off the remnants of his shirt. "Guess you folks have better places to be sweeping than just the cities and Zones."
Galen gave a quiet nod. "Seems like it."
Mourne coughed violently beneath him, wheezing, each breath a rasp dragged through shredded lungs. His throat crackled with the effort, but he still managed to growl one bitter word: "Fools…"
Galen's eyes shifted back down. "Speak again and I'll rip out your soul with your tongue."
Mourne went silent immediately, though his eyes still flared with hatred, tinged with panic.
