Their strides devoured the plain. Human lightning bolts splitting the heat, moving so fast the stones beneath their feet blurred into continuous gray. Dylan's essence core pulsed beneath his ribs like a war drum, transforming every muscle into steel springs. Maggie raced beside him, a nimble shadow whose boots barely grazed the ground, stirring minimal dust. And Élisa—Élisa literally soared above the desert. Her spear vibrated with an emerald halo, carrying her weight like a guided projectile.
Her bare feet skimmed the scorching rocks, sparing her skin but more importantly conserving her precious essence. She could have outpaced them—become a streak of light racing toward Martissant—but she deliberately kept pace. Every pulse of the spear drained her reserves, a constant calculation between speed and survival.
Suddenly, Élisa slowed. Her spear tilted, the emerald energy flickering weakly. She landed softly, her feet finally meeting stone with a suppressed wince.
