The words don’t finish. His body tightens, a sharp pull through his side where the wound tears a little wider under the strain. Blood darkens the fabric. More than before.
“Don’t,” I cut in, my hand pressing lightly but firmly against his side, holding him in place as he tries to push himself up. “You don’t get to ignore this.”
“I am functional.”
It comes out rough, not as controlled or as certain. I shake my head.
“No. You’re not.”
Behind us, stone shifts, louder. The creature is moving, trying to free itself. We do not have time for this. We do not have time for anything. I force myself to focus, because if I do not, he is not getting back up.
“Look at me,” I say, sharper.
His gaze finds mine, and this time it holds. Barely.
“Stay with me,” I repeat, quieter.
I press my hand harder against the wound, not enough to hurt, but hopefully enough to slow the bleeding where it is seeping through. His breath hitches, then steadies. It’s not normal, but better.
“I need you upright,” I tell him. “Not fast. Not fighting. Just—up.”
He stares at me like he’s measuring the words, weighing them against everything else pulling at him. Pain, instinct, the need to keep moving, to keep protecting.
“I will stand.”
“I know,” I say. “Just careful.”
Another shift behind us. The creature forces part of itself free with a low, grinding sound, stone cracking under the pressure. Dust rains down again. We do not have long. I slide my arm under his, bracing, positioning him before he can try to force it himself.
“On me,” I say. “Let me take the weight.”
His jaw tightens in resistance, then something changes. It’s not surrender or weakness; it is choosing. He shifts, slower, controlled, letting me guide him instead of pushing past me.
Good.
I pull him up carefully, keeping my hand pressed against his side as he rises, feeling the tremor run through him as he straightens. He stays upright. Barely, but upright.
“That’s enough,” I murmur, adjusting my grip so he can balance without tearing the wound further. “We move, but we move smart.”
His gaze flicks past me to the tunnel. Back to the threat.
“It is not contained.”
“No,” I say, following his line of sight as the creature shifts again, more of its body forcing free from the collapsed stone. “But it’s slowed.”
“For now.”
“Then we use that.”
His attention snaps onto me. Sharp and focused. There it is again—that shift. Not just reacting. Thinking, with me.
“We don’t outrun it,” I continue, keeping my voice low and steady despite the way my heart is trying to climb out of my chest. “We keep breaking its path. Tight spaces. Bad angles. Force it to work for every step.”
He studies me, not questioning—assessing. Then?—
“Yes.”
That’s all I need. I adjust my hold on him, shifting his weight just enough that he can move without collapsing again.
