His thoughts were not without caution, though. Absorbing mana from those stronger than oneself was a dangerous act, a gamble of will and endurance. But as long as I win… the risks matter little.
Lucavion reached for his flask, perched neatly on a flat stone by the river's edge, and took a measured sip. The burn of alcohol slid down his throat, cleansing the residual taste of blood that still lingered at the back of his tongue. He turned his gaze toward the camp he'd made earlier—a modest fire crackling faintly beneath the trees, its glow softened by distance.
Lucavion tilted the flask slightly, watching the liquid swirl within before taking another slow sip. The alcohol bit at his tongue, sharp and unrelenting, though it didn't carry the burn he wished it would—no warmth pooling in his stomach, no dizzying haze clouding his senses.
Of course not. Regular alcohol holds no power here.
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