The rain had transformed into a steady drumming. Droplets ran in thin streams down the dusty windowpane, briefly glittering in the light of a distant lightning flash before disappearing again. Lina sat on the floor, her back pressed against the cold metal shelf. Next to her lay Alaric, half curled up, one hand at his side. The cloth she had wrapped around his wound was dark with saturation.
She could hear only two things: his breathing and the rain. Everything else was too far away, too threatening.
"We need to get out of here," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Alaric briefly opened his eyes, silver-gray in the flickering light. "Not now."
"If they come back—"
"Then we'll hear them first."
His voice was rough, but calm. She hated how calm he remained while her insides burned.
She turned her gaze to the cloth at his side—no, to what lay beneath it. Blood was still seeping through, darker than before. She pressed her lips together.
"You're losing too much."
