We were running.
Not tactically retreating.
Not repositioning.
Running.
The kind of running where your lungs burn, your legs scream, and your brain is too busy listing regrets to bother asking questions.
Kent was slung over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
A very heavy, steel-skinned sack of potatoes.
Each of his breaths came out in a low, wet rasp against the back of my neck, his arms hanging limp, legs bouncing awkwardly against my ribs with every stride. If he'd been conscious, he would've complained about the indignity. Loudly.
I almost wished he was.
Nora ran beside me, boots barely touching the ground, white coat streaming behind her like a banner torn loose from a battlefield. Her breathing was steady. Controlled. Infuriatingly calm, considering what we were running from.
Ice crunched beneath our feet as the ruined landscape blurred past. Shattered pillars. Melted plains. Craters still steaming faintly where reality had been violated moments ago.
