Elara stared at Marcus's open hand.
It was calloused slightly from the recent fighting, but his grip looked steady.
She looked back at the cold, dark cell.
Thomas lay in the corner. The shadows seemed to swallow him whole.
He looked so small now. Death had stolen the vitality that made him Thomas.
Her mind screamed at her to stay.
It told her to lie down beside him. It told her to let the cold take her too.
A world without him was a world of grey ash. It was a world she did not recognize.
But then she looked at Marcus.
His eyes were tired, but they burned with a quiet intensity.
He had fought for her. He had come back for strangers when he could have run.
He spoke of living. He spoke of defying the monsters by simply existing.
Elara felt a spark ignite in the center of her chest.
It was not hope. It was not happiness.
It was something darker. Something hotter.
It was hate.
It was a cold, crystallized hatred for the men who had done this.
