Not cleanly.
Not evenly.
But enough.
The lock snaps with a sharp crack, fragments falling to the floor as the mechanism gives way entirely.
The door swings wider.
Freedom.
For half a second, none of us move.
Then Skot exhales, the sound thin, almost relieved, and his hand drops away from the wall.
“Done,” he says.
And then he collapses.
Verr catches him before he hits the ground fully, lowering him with more care than I’ve ever seen him use in a fight.
“Stay with me,” Verr says, his voice low, tighter than before.
Skot huffs again, blood slipping at the corner of his mouth as he shifts slightly, trying to breathe around something that isn’t working the way it should.
“I didn’t come all this way to pass out,” he mutters.
“Then don’t,” I snap, dropping to my knees beside him, pressing my hand against his side where the worst of the blood is pooling. It’s warm. Too warm. Slick under my palm.
“Lyria,” he says.
I look at him.
Really look.
And I know.
Not yet.
But close enough that it doesn’t matter.
“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t?—”
“Listen,” he cuts in, his hand lifting just enough to grab my wrist, his grip weaker than it should be but still there. “We don’t have time for you to argue with reality.”
My throat tightens, but I swallow it down, forcing my focus back into place.
“Fine,” I say. “Then talk.”
His gaze shifts to Verr, then back to me.
“He’s not ready,” Skot says.
“I know,” I reply.
Verr stiffens slightly beside me.
“That’s not helpful,” he says.
