We tumble together.
My scream catches in my throat.
He lands first, breaking my fall. My visor cracks. My elbow splits against the stone. But it’s hisbody—shaking, burning,cooking—that keeps me alive.
He doesn’t scream.
Not once.
Heshudders, the entire cave echoing with the weight of it.
And then, silence.
Smoke still drips from his back.
My hands fumble over him. I cry out—ugly, wrenching sobs as I try to peel the fabric away. It sticks. Blackened, fused. His skin is a horror show—deep grooves of char, patches of meat exposed, veins cauterized.
“Gods, no—no—why did you—why did you do this?!”
He doesn’t answer.
His eyes are closed.
I press my hand to his chest, screaming, “Breathe!”
And then he does.
A rasp.
A pull of air like stone dragged across sand.
And then another.
Slow.
Measured.
Steady.
I watch, shaking, as the wounds on his back begin tomove.
The blisters twitch. The open slashes pulse.
New tissue begins to bloom—red, raw, but undeniably healing.
My mouth drops open. My breath goes shallow.
I touch one of the half-healed wounds and gasp. It's warm. But not fever-warm.
Alive.
His body isknitting itself together.
I sit there, blinking, mouth dry, heart hammering.
The firelight flickers across his face.
He opens his eyes.
