With a sudden release of tension, Lysithea collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. A raspy cough escaped her lips. From underneath the door, a trickle of blood began to seep in. The stench of iron and the grip of panic induced a wave of nausea. Pallid as death, Lysithea leaned against the wall, the sound of her ragged breaths mingling with Terran’s approaching footsteps.
“Lysithea, answer me.”
She yearned to respond, but her throat constricted, allowing only a harsh breath to escape. A desperation raged through her for Terran to cover her eyes again and cool the fever that plagued her.
Eventually, his footsteps halted right before her chamber door. Each heavy step he took made the floorboards creak and squelch in the pooled blood. Lysithea grimaced and turned her head away.
“Lysithea, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”
She could only press her hand against the floor. He must have known the state of panic she was in, for he continued in a calm but stern voice.
