It wasn't that she could detect the others - lights, at this point, she couldn't detect anything. Khaos was little more than a blob in a fuzzy, weak sphere of vision; his blades of blood were tiny whiffs of acrid metallicism; his scathing words never even reached her ears.
Elya's blood continued to seep outwards, now sticking her clothes tight her body. With every movement they slid up and down, clinging and grinding against her skin, eerie, warm, and wet. It dripped onto the floor, leaving trails of droplets. It tore breath from her lungs and dashed it away: a heinous act of undoing. For every five breaths she took, four were lost forever. She forced her movements ever onward, driving away sluggishness and aching; and as a result, she could barely see. She couldn't hear. She couldn't feel. Nothing but the throb at her chest, begging her to stop and fall and scream and die.
It wasn't her senses that told her that her friends were still alive. It wasn't logic or reason or any other kind of... thing.
Just a thought.
Believing in someone else.