Page 185 of Warlord's Plaything

"No. No, no, no?—"

My fingers brush something solid.

Not stone.

Not ruin.

Armor.

A choked sound tears from my throat.

I drop to my knees, gripping the edges of the broken chestplate, forcing aside the last of the rubble.

Xyron.

Unmoving.

Pale.

Too still.

Too quiet.

I press my hands against his face, searching for warmth, for breath, for anything that tells me he is still here.

His skin is cold.

His lips are slightly parted, his fangs barely visible.

His eyes?—

Closed.

Like he is already lost.

Like I am already too late.

"No, no, no."

My fingers dig into his shoulders, shaking him, willing him to move.

"Xyron, wake up. Get up."

Nothing.

"You don’t get to do this."

Still nothing.

"You don’t get to fucking leave me!"

The scream that rips from my throat is pure anguish, raw and hollow, breaking against the ruins of this cursed temple.

I press my forehead against his, my breath ragged, my chest caving in.

I shake him again.

Once.

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