Maelor straightened and turned his palms over, studying them with the detached precision of a man cataloguing his own failure.
"The spikes are the anchor," he said, voice flat and clinical. "Dark Fae origin, threaded with parasitic magic designed to burrow. Every second they remain embedded, the corruption spreads deeper into the host." His mismatched eyes flicked to Hyran. "Your magic failed because you were trying to heal around an open wound still actively poisoning him. Mine failed for the same reason."
"So pull them out," Gav said.
"Bare contact with dark-forged material will necrotize flesh on touch." Maelor held up his own hands, where faint black veins had already bloomed across his palms.
Aeron looked at his own hands, then back at Maelor. "How do we extract them?"
"Barrier between skin and spike. Fabric. Leather. Anything." Maelor's tone carried zero comfort. "And the removal will be the worst pain either of them has ever felt, so steel yourselves accordingly."
