The world shrank down to the frantic, uneven rhythm of two pairs of boots hitting stone. Cherion wasn't just guiding Zarius, he was basically dragging him. His fingers were clenched so tight in the Duke's sleeve that his knuckles had gone pale and numb. Behind them, the dining hall faded into background noise, clinking cutlery and those awkward, half-choked gasps from Yerel and Philia. Zarius had somehow, honestly, no clue how, managed to wheeze out one last painfully polite excuse. Something about needing rest. Something about his "terribly fragile condition."
Cherion didn't hear the words. Not properly. All he could hear was that awful, wet cough, like it was tearing straight through his own chest.
"Just a little further," Cherion hissed, though whether he was talking to Zarius or himself was anyone's guess.
