Marble staircases curved downward like frozen rivers.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, shattered in places from the chaos of battle.
My legs shook violently with every step.
Days without food. Days without rest.
Days without movement.
My muscles had weakened to the point where each stair felt like climbing through water.
Ruslan noticed instantly.
He shifted his grip.
One arm remained locked around my waist.
His other hand moved under my elbow, lifting more of my weight without making it obvious.
He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t dragging me.
He was carrying me through the aftermath carefully.
Protectively.
I leaned into him more as exhaustion threatened to pull me down.
He adjusted.
Never complaining. Never hesitating.
His presence made the world around me feel smaller.
Safer.
Even though we were walking through enemy territory.
Even though death still lingered in the air.
He lowered his head slightly near my ear.
“I won’t let anyone take anything from you again,” he murmured.
The promise was a declaration.
We descended past the bodies.
Dozens of them.
Vasquez’s soldiers—men who had once walked through these halls with arrogance, weapons strapped to their chests, believing loyalty and fear made them untouchable—now lay scattered across the marble floors.
Some were slumped against walls.
Others had collapsed halfway down staircases.
A few were draped over banisters like discarded uniforms thrown aside.
There were no gunshot wounds.
