A thick, velvet blackness swallowed Theodore. There was no light, only a colossal, throbbing ache that consumed his entire body, anchored somewhere in the deep, shredded muscle of his legs. He was aware of a distant, ringing sound, a constant high-pitched hum that was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Slowly, the darkness began to break, allowing isolated sounds to pierce through.
The first was a voice, sharp and precise, cutting through the haze. It was Corbin.
"—infirmary. Closest safe point with equipment. She won't survive the journey to—"
The sound faded, pulled back by the vast, silent tide of the pain.
A minute, or perhaps an hour, passed in nothingness. Then, another sound surfaced. This voice was deeper, rougher, entirely unfamiliar. It sounded like a man giving instruction, a note of grim professionalism in his tone.
"—damage is great. Concussive force. Shrapnel throughout the lower extremities. We need—"
The words dissolved once more. Theodore struggled to grasp them, but the effort was too much. His mind was too saturated with trauma to hold any thought.
The next voice was different. It was the sound of utter panic, laced with a love that felt like a painful anchor dragging him back to the surface. It was Aveline.
"—Theodore! Oh God, I came as fast as I could! Tell me he'll be alright, please—"
A wave of crushing nausea rolled over him. He felt the cold pressure of her hand on his, real or imagined, and then the dark claimed him again.
When the darkness finally receded, it did so slowly, agonizingly. Theodore's eyelids fluttered open. Above him was a ceiling, plain and white, illuminated by soft, indirect light. The air was sterile, carrying the faint, metallic scent of antiseptic. He was in an infirmary.
A weight settled in his vision. Aveline was sitting beside the bed. Her head was bowed, her hair falling forward to shield her face. She was not dressed in her usual tailored clothes, but in a simple, practical tunic. The skin on her knuckles was white where her hands were tightly clasped together.
A jolt of protective instinct cut through the pain. Theodore wanted to reassure her, to tell her he was fine. He tried to raise his hand toward her bowed head.
A lightning bolt of agony erupted from his legs, searing up his spine and across his chest. He couldn't suppress the sound. A low, ragged hiss escaped his lips.
Aveline's head snapped up. Her face was ravaged, lines of worry etched deep around her eyes and mouth. The sight of his movement made her jump from the chair.
"Theodore!" she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.
She stumbled closer, her hand hovering over his arm, afraid to touch him. The relief in her eyes was a visible thing, washing away the tension that had held her face rigid. "You're alright. You're finally awake."
He swallowed, his throat dry and rough. "Wha... happened?"
"I don't know," she said, carefully pouring a glass of water and holding the straw to his lips. He drank deeply. "The children brought you in. They were frantic. They said there was a terrible accident. They didn't say much else. I came immediately."
He looked past her, his eyes scanning the pristine white walls of the small room. "The children. Where are they?"
Aveline took a deep breath, smoothing the blanket over his chest. "They're close. In a room next to this one. They're staying with one of them. Briar."
Theodore's heart clenched. The name brought back the vivid, traumatic flash of the explosion, the desperate cry, the blood against the wall. "Is she... is Briar alright?"
Aveline gently brushed his hair back from his forehead, her gaze softening with concern. "She should be. The medic said she took a very hard hit to the head. She's unconscious, but they've done what they can. She's resting. They're just waiting for her to wake up."
Theodore slowly leaned his head back against the thin pillow, staring up at the ceiling. His mind, now clear of the anesthetic fog, was a mess of agonizing memory and chilling realization. He remembered the mines, the ambush, Emmett's name being called, Briar's desperate rush. He was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to lead.
Aveline sat back down, watching him intently. She had questions.
"Theodore," she began, her voice cautious. "When they came in... I counted them. The children. They were hysterical, but I counted. There were eight when you left, but there are only seven here."
Theodore's gaze snapped down from the ceiling to his wife's face. He knew this was the question he had dreaded, the one that confirmed his deepest failure.
He paused, the confession weighing him down.
"One of them... Emmett," he finally admitted, his voice barely a rough whisper. "He was taken. Abducted."
Aveline's eyes widened, horror instantly displacing the worry. She covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a gasp.
"Oh, no, Theodore. That's terrible. Who would do that? What if... what if his abductors sell him off? Or worse, use him?"
She leaned in, her voice low and desperate. "What are you going to do?"
Theodore looked away. He looked at the bandages wrapping his legs, the tubes running from his arm, the pristine helplessness of the infirmary. The weight of his failure crushed him. He was wounded, one of the Baron's assets was kidnapped, another unconscious, and his remaining team was relying on him for guidance.
He tried to force the words out, the familiar, cold resolve that had always defined him. He tried to claim he had a plan, a strategy, a way out.
But he couldn't.
Instead, a deep, tired exhaustion settled over him, the kind that went bone-deep. He looked at his wife, the one person who saw him without the armor of his command, and for the first time since he had been pulled into this life, Theodore faltered.
He stammered, his voice weak and defeated. "Aveline... I... I don't know what to do."