I lower him carefully, easing him down against the base of a tree, my hands slower now, more controlled, making sure he doesn’t fall harder than necessary.
For a moment, I just breathe. The world is quiet here. His face is pale beneath the blood, his breathing shallow, uneven, but there.
Alive. Barely.
I press my hand lightly against his chest, feeling the rhythm, counting it without meaning to, anchoring myself to something real instead of the fractured edges of everything I’ve just seen.
“You’re still here,” I say softly.
No response. I didn’t expect one. The weight of what I’ve done settles slowly, not all at once, but in pieces.
The artifact is gone. The mission failed. Everything we came here for is buried beneath stone or stolen.
And I chose this anyway. I glance at him again. At the steady rise and fall of his chest, at the tension still held in his features even now, even unconscious, as though control is something his body refuses to release completely.
“You’re going to hate this,” I murmur.
A quiet breath escapes me, something close to a laugh, though there’s no humor in it.
“But you’re alive.”
That has to be enough. It has to be.
But standing still doesn’t last. It never does.
I draw in a slow breath and force myself to look beyond him, beyond the fragile stillness we’ve carved out of chaos, scanning the terrain with the same urgency that carried us out of the ruin. The air is colder here, thinner, carrying the damp scent of earth and moss, something untouched by the collapse behind us. It should feel like relief. It doesn’t. Not yet. We’re exposed, and exposure is a delay, not safety.
My gaze returns to him despite myself. His face has settled into something quieter in unconsciousness, the sharp control he carries softened just enough to make him look… different. Less guarded. Less unreachable. It unsettles me more than anything else has today.
He looks almost peaceful. The thought feels misplaced. Because even now, there is tension in him, held in the lines of his body.
That part of him doesn’t fade, even like this. I find myself studying it longer than I should, tracing the contrast between stillness and strength, between what he shows and what remains underneath.
I exhale and force my focus away. The wound comes first.
I move closer and push aside the torn fabric at his side, revealing the damage beneath. It’s worse than I allowed myself to believe in the moment, deeper, the blood darker now, slower but still steady. My fingers press lightly around it, assessing, measuring without tools, relying on instinct and necessity.
“This is going to be a problem,” I murmur, more to the air than to him.
I don’t have much. No proper supplies. No certainty this will hold. It has to anyway.
I tear a strip from my sleeve, the fabric resisting for a moment before giving way, and press it firmly against the wound. The blood seeps through quickly, warm against my hand, but I keep the pressure steady, waiting until it slows, until I can wrap it properly. Each movement is careful, binding it tight enough to hold without making it worse.
He doesn’t stir. Good.
When I finish, I sit back on my heels for a moment, breathing slower now, grounding myself in the quiet, in something real and present instead of everything I had to force myself through to get here.
That’s when I see it. A break in the terrain ahead. Subtle. Easy to miss unless you’re looking for something more than the obvious. A cave. Small, partially hidden by stone and overgrowth, but deep enough to conceal us, to give us cover from anything that might still be searching. The sight of it sends a sharp, immediate relief through me, the kind that doesn’t last long but matters enough.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath.
I push myself back to my feet and move to him again, adjusting my grip, pulling his arm over my shoulders once more. The weight settles harder this time, or maybe my body is finally catching up to everything I’ve pushed it through. Either way, it doesn’t change what needs to be done.
I brace. Then move.
Step by step, slow and controlled, guiding his weight with mine, forcing balance where it wants to fail. Each movement takes more effort than the last, my arms tightening, my breath growing uneven, but I don’t stop. Not until we reach the cave. Not until the stone closes around us and the open space disappears behind us.
Only then do I lower him again, carefully this time, easing him down against the inner wall where the ground is more stable. The quiet inside is different. Heavier. Safer. For now.