Ilya Veyne, her silver hair matted with filth and her face pale as death, scrambled up. Her earlier, reckless arrogance was gone, shattered and washed away, replaced by a cold, trembling efficiency. She grabbed the lip of the grate, her knuckles white, and nodded.
Dain heaved, muscles straining, and lifted the dead weight of Kaelan Brightblade.
Kaelan was a ruin. He was unconscious, his golden hair caked in blood and sewage, his face a deathly gray. The Stalker's black, chitinous arm-blade was still embedded in his right shoulder, a horrific, alien trophy. His entire right side was soaked in his own blood.
"He's... he's too heavy..." Ilya grunted, her arms shaking as she tried to pull Kaelan's dead weight.
"Lia! Get up here! Now!" Dain roared, his voice cracking with desperation.
