"S…Septimius…" Freja's lips trembled as the name slipped out, her voice frail, disbelieving. Her wide eyes fixed on the figure standing before her as though the world had tilted into some impossible dream. For a moment she thought she must be imagining him, a figment her desperate mind had conjured to soften the certainty of her death.
Was it really him?
Had he truly come? For her?
Her chest tightened, breath shuddering between hope and terror. She could hardly process it. The thought of rescue had never crossed her mind—why would it? She had already resigned herself to her fate, bracing for the cold finality of death. No one was supposed to come. No one ever had before.
And yet, against every expectation, it was him. Septimius. Standing there, real, undeniable.
