Kael dropped to one knee, the club-hammer slipping from his numb fingers, the rough wood clattering onto the blood-soaked earth. His body trembled, a symphony of pain and exhaustion, a fragile shell on the verge of collapse. It was over. The Blightmaw lay still, its massive form a grotesque, broken sculpture against the backdrop of the ruined village. He’d won, but victory felt like a hollow, echoing word in the face of the devastation surrounding him. The air was thick with the scent of death— the metallic tang of blood, the acrid stench of the creature’s effluent, and the sweet, sickening aroma of decay that seemed to emanate from the very earth itself.

His gaze drifted to the young lizardfolk girl, cowering behind him. Her scales, usually a vibrant emerald green, seemed dull, ashen, in the dim light that filtered through the fog. Her eyes, wide and dark, reflected the terror of what she had witnessed.

“It’s over. It's dead." He wanted to reassure her, but the words caught in his throat, the sound that emerged a raspy croak, barely audible above the wind’s mournful sigh.

He couldn’t look away from the Blightmaw’s body. Its massive head lay twisted at an unnatural angle, its jaws, still partially open, revealing a glimpse of the mangled remains of its last victim. He hadn’t been able to save them all. Couldn’t have. But this one… This little one…

She was alive. And he had kept his promise, the one he’d made to himself, to that flicker of hope that had ignited in his heart when he first saw her, when he’d looked into those big, curious eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, the world tilting for a moment, his vision blurring.

But something wasn’t right. A wave of dizziness washed over him, the pain in his ribs a searing inferno now, an inferno that seemed to be spreading, branching out like roots, into his chest, his arms, his legs.

“Poison.” The realization came in a sudden, cold wave. It was the smell—that cloying, sweet stench that clung to the Blightmaw, that permeated the air. And now it was coursing through his veins, burning, searing, a cold fire that was slowly consuming him from the inside.

His vision tunneled, the world shrinking to a single point of searing, agonizing pain that radiated outward from the wound on his shoulder. His heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of his fading senses. The girl rushed to his side, her eyes wide, her voice a torrent of clicks and hisses that washed over him, their meaning lost in the fog of his pain. She touched his shoulder, her scaled hand cool and reassuring against his burning skin, her touch a fleeting echo of a world that was slipping away.

She was scared, he could see it. But her fear was overshadowed by something else, a determination, a primal instinct to help. Her presence, small but resolute, anchored him, kept him tethered to the fading world. He tried to tell her to run, to go through the portal before it closed, to leave him there, to let the darkness claim him. But his voice was a choked whisper, a breath of dust lost in the wind. He could only watch as her gaze darted between him and the portal.

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“No… it's too late.” He struggled to force the words past the constriction in his throat, but no sound emerged. He was dying. Here, now, in this ravaged village. He could feel the warmth of her hand, her touch a testament to her concern. But it couldn't stop the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision.

"Leave me," he thought, a silent plea he couldn't articulate, tears welling up, mixing with the sweat and blood on his face. “Don't let it get you too.” But the girl shook her head, her eyes wide with a desperation that mirrored his own.

And in that moment, as he lay there, his body wracked with pain, the taste of blood and poison filling his mouth, a strange, twisted surge of determination flared within him. He wouldn’t give up, not yet. He had failed to protect her village, had failed to save her people, but he would at least ensure her survival. He wouldn't let the creature claim another life.

“Go," he whispered, his voice rough and weak, barely audible, a mere puff of air against the heavy silence of the marsh.

But she wouldn't go. She was watching him, her gaze fixed on his, a determination in those dark, reptilian eyes that echoed his own. There was a question there, unspoken, a silent plea for understanding. A need to… connect, maybe. Or maybe it was simply an instinct to protect of her own, an emotion that transcended the boundaries of language, of species, of realms. He felt a surge of gratitude, so intense it made his chest ache, his throat constrict. This… this small, brave creature. She was reminding him that there was more to this world, more to this life, than just surviving, than just conquering.

With a trembling hand, he reached for her, his fingers tracing the cool, smooth scales on her arm. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.

"We… have to try," he rasped, the words forced through the pain that gripped his chest, the poison searing through his veins. "Portal…" He gestured toward the shimmering purple tear in the realm’s fabric.

She nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. He could see the fear in her eyes, but also a fierce determination that mirrored his own.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, then the other, his body trembling with effort. The pain was overwhelming, a white-hot fire that radiated through his every nerve ending, but he forced himself to ignore it, to focus on the task at hand, to summon the last vestiges of the Void Shard's power that lingered within him.

The girl grabbed his arm, her surprisingly strong grip pulling him to his feet. He swayed, the fog closing in, the world spinning, but her presence, her touch, anchored him.

He took a step towards the portal, then another, each movement an agony, the world around him blurring, twisting.

He was so tired. He wanted to give up, to collapse, to let the darkness take him.

"No. We can't stop. Not yet," He rasped, clinging to her hand, her grip firm, unwavering.

Each step towards the pulsing light was a victory. But it wasn't enough.

A guttural growl shattered the oppressive silence. He stumbled, his vision blurring, and turned.

“No!” It was impossible. Yet there it was, the Blightmaw, rising from the muddy ground like a nightmare given form. Its movements were sluggish, jerky, its eyes dull, unfocused. Blood poured from wounds across its body—the wounds he'd inflicted—leaving a trail of crimson that stained the earth, the reeds, the very air itself. But it was alive.