"What is it on my back that you're staring at like that?" Dylan asked, slowly turning his head toward the elf.
His voice was deep, still heavy with the exhaustion from the absorption, but tinged with genuine curiosity—not alarmed, not worried… just attentive. Like a man who senses he's no longer quite the same, without yet being able to put a name to it.
Élisa, for her part, didn't move.
Her eyebrows furrowed a bit more, slowly, in that particular way she had when something bothered her, without yet knowing whether she should worry… or marvel at it.
And she replied, without preamble:
"You mean you don't feel anything?"
Her voice was low, almost strangled. Not because she was shocked, but because her mind was already racing—she was analyzing, cross-referencing memories, fragments of stories, snippets of old manuals.
