Shit.
A guttural shout rips out of me, and in answer, Samick’s grip on the small of my back tightens, as if to hold me in place in case my panic turns on me, and I try to flee.
But I don’t.
I’m just frozen.
Trees are coming down all around, cries echo through the woods, and a growing crimson crack is splintering through the blackout.
Samick doesn’t stop.
He runs.
And he runs.
And he runs—for so long that I don’t hear the cries and shouts anymore.
He runs so far that the woods are left behind.
The he runs even longer, until his boots are smacking down on a road—and only then, does he stop.
The second he does, he tugs me off his shoulder and sets me down. But his arm stays looped around me, holding me up.
My legs shudder.
And I stare back at what we ran from.
Darkness splintering with tears of crimson.
Those gleams reach us, but there’s something flickering about it.
Like shadows moving…
Or people running.
Samick’s urgency hasn’t settled.
He shoves something cold and hard into my hand.
The shape of it is familiar in my palm, even through the gloves.
My fingers fumble over it, tracing the length before recognition hits.
The crimson light isn’t strong or close enough to reach these shadows we stand in, but I don’t need the light—ironically—to see what’s in my hand.
My torch.
The small one with the wrist strap.
I don’t know when Samick took it from my backpack, and I don’t get a moment to think about it, because his hand is snatching up my forearm in a blur of frost—
And I’m chucked away from him.
Air whips me as I tumble through it.
I hit the ground.
The torch clatters onto the wet road.
