The roar of the helicopter blades was the only sound in the dark sky. It didn't fade, didn't weaken, just kept pressing against the metal body of the aircraft like a constant force that refused to ease.
Inside the cabin, the red emergency lights bathed everything in a bloody glow. The color made the shadows feel deeper, heavier, like the entire space was soaked in something dangerous and unfinished.
Alaric sat on the floor of the transport, his back against the cold metal wall. He refused to put Silas on the medical stretcher.
Instead, he held Silas across his lap like a precious, broken doll, his large arms wrapped tightly around Silas's waist. His grip never loosened, not even slightly, as if the moment he did, Silas would disappear from his arms.
Silas was covered in the dust of the explosion and the dried blood from his fight with the guards. He looked small in Alaric's tactical gear, his head resting against the Prince's chest.
