They reached the ridge just as the first grey light of dawn began to bleed over the horizon.The survivors weren't a "people" yet. They were just clusters of shivering bodies wrapped in thin blankets, leaning into each other for warmth.
No one cheered. No one hugged. They just sat. They had escaped, but "escape" felt like a lie when you didn't know where you were or who you were supposed to be.
Alistair came out last.
His arms were starting to ache from the weight of Asarmose, but he didn't let his grip slacken.The Prince looked smaller than he should. His breathing was shallow—too steady, too careful. Even in a dead faint, the man looked like he was trying to maintain a posture, his brow slightly pinched as if he were arguing with his own exhaustion.
Alistair adjusted his hold, shifting the Prince's head against his shoulder. He could still feel it.
