Soaked.
Dark and thick across his chest, down one arm, dripping steadily from his fingers where his grip is still wrapped around something—no, not something—a blade, the edge dull with use, the handle slick.
“Skot—” I start, stepping forward instinctively.
“Don’t,” he cuts in, his voice rough, thinner than I’ve ever heard it, but still carrying that same clipped control underneath. “Don’t waste your time.”
He takes another step and almost doesn’t make it, his weight shifting wrong, his knee hitting the stone before he catches himself with one hand against the wall. The impact leaves a smear behind him, dark and immediate.
“Shit,” I breathe, moving to him anyway, catching his arm before he can fall again. “You’re?—”
“I know,” he says, breath hitching once, sharp, contained. “I’m aware.”
Verr is already moving, crossing the space between us in two strides, his eyes scanning Skot fast, precise, taking in the damage the same way he reads a battlefield.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Verr says.
Skot huffs something that might be a laugh if it had more air behind it.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That was the general consensus.”
He shifts his grip, pushing himself upright just enough to stay on his feet, though most of his weight ends up leaning into the wall.
“Keys,” I say, already scanning him, his belt, his hands.
“No keys,” he replies.
“Then how?—”
He lifts his hand.
Not the one with the blade.
The other.
The one shaking just slightly under the weight of holding itself up.
Magic gathers there.
Weak.
Flickering.
“Step back,” he says.
Verr doesn’t hesitate. He grabs my arm and pulls me back just enough to clear the space as Skot presses his palm flat against the locking mechanism embedded in the wall beside the door.
The air shifts.
Not violently.
Not like Verr’s.
This is different—tight, focused, like something being forced through a space too small to hold it.
The metal groans.
Then splits.
