The air around them was still, heavy with the scent of blood and scorched earth. Isolde shifted her weight, one hand pressed against the wound on her side, her fingers slick with dark crimson. Her voice cut through the silence, cold but edged with urgency.
"Adam... we need to return to Myrta."
Before Adam could answer, a faint, broken laugh drifted from Celine's shattered form. She lay half-buried in the rubble, her severed wrist still leaking blood into the dirt. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven jerks. She tried to lift her head, the muscles in her neck trembling, but only managed a few inches before it fell back against the stones. Yet her eyes still gleamed.
"It's too late for that," she rasped. Blood bubbled at the corner of her lips. "You won't make it in time."
Isolde froze. Her hand tightened against her wound, knuckles whitening. She turned slowly, pale blue eyes narrowing.
"What do you mean by that?"
