They crossed the bridge in a blur.
Fin's boots hit the rocky shore and he was already dropping, already lowering, already moving with the frantic economy of a man operating on terror and training in equal measure.
He placed her flat on the volcanic stone, hands trembling as he positioned them over her sternum. His fingers interlocked, arms locked straight, shoulders stacked directly above his wrists the way every warrior was taught in field medic drills that nobody ever wanted to use.
Her skin was too pale. Her lashes were wet and her chest was still.
"She's breathing, right?" Gavriel rasped from behind him, and the crack in his voice answered the question before Fin did.
"She's not," Fin said, and the words came out broken, fractured down the middle, held together by nothing except the fact that his hands were already moving.
