My face was pressed against something rough and scratchy—like old leather. My tiny arms flailed, but the man carrying me only tightened his grip.
"Stop squirming, you little rat!" he growled, his breath hot and sour near my ear.
I couldn't scream. My mouth was covered by something—a rough hand, maybe? It smelled like blood and ash. My eyes burned.
They were running.
"Run faster! You bastard! We can't fail!" one of them growled.
Boots slammed against the marble floor. I could feel every jolt and shift as the man carrying me dashed down hallway after hallway, twisting and turning through corridors I felt like I didn't recognize.
"This way!" one of them barked. "The east wing passage leads straight to the garden wall."
"The patrol's tighter near the wall, you idiot!" another snapped back. "We'll be surrounded if we go there."
"Then we hold them off. The brat's the only leverage we've got!"
