"Hours might be enough."
"If you don't overexert." He poured a single drop onto the back of her hand. The liquid spread, traced sigils along her veins, then sank in with a whisper. "That will sting."
She hissed. Fine arcs of static jumped from her scalp and died. "Understatement."
Draven recapped the vial. "You remain combat-capable?"
A laugh half made of static fizzed in her throat. "I'm breathing, aren't I? Raëdrithar's wings are itchy for the sky. We'll manage."
He met her gaze, cold appraisal under calm lids. Inside, calculations shifted, branching. He would need her in the air—no one else wielded storm-glass arrows with the same precision—but the risk of her resonance shattering mid-flight was non-trivial. Still, necessity outranked caution.
