Dican ran.
His breath came ragged, his shoulder aching under Bian's weight. The prince hung limp in his arms, unconscious again, his skeletal left arm wrapped in a strip of Dican's own torn jacket to protect it from jostling. Behind him, the old man stumbled through the smoke-filled corridor, carrying little Quangya—his wiry arms locked protectively around the boy's small frame. Quangya clung to him tightly, silent, his eyes wide with terror but dry. He hadn't made a sound since they left the vent. He was too stunned for crying.
They were completely defenseless. A frail human elder, and a child who barely reached Dican's knee.
And the ship was falling apart around them.
"Keep up!" Dican barked, not looking back. "We're almost there!"
