Silence settled like ash.
Isolde stood where Marcus had pulled her—half shielded by his body, his cloak wrapped around her shoulders with a care that bordered on reverence. The room smelled of iron and oil, of torn silk and cold stone. Somewhere behind them, a man breathed in ragged, broken pulls of air.
Alaric.
Isolde did not look at him.
Her attention fixed instead on the small, ordinary things that told her she was still alive: the weight of the cloak; the steadiness of Marcus's arm at her back; the way the candle flame trembled but did not go out.
Her hands began to shake.
Not violently—just enough that she noticed. She pressed them together, fingers interlacing, grounding herself in the familiar pressure. It did not stop the shiver that passed through her spine.
Marcus did not speak. He shifted slightly, angling his body to block her view of the far wall, where Alaric lay crumpled and bleeding. His presence was a wall—solid, immovable.
