Alina caught him.
"I've got you," she whispered, her arms wrapping around him, holding him upright.
Dante looked at her. His crimson eyes, usually so sharp, were dull with exhaustion.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice weak.
"I know," she replied.
"Your arm," he said, his gaze falling to the gash on her forearm.
"I know," she said again.
"You should sit down," he murmured.
"So should you," she said softly.
"Alright," he whispered.
King Orin watched them with something that looked like curiosity. His golden eyes moved from Dante's pale face to Alina's bloody arm to the way they held each other like the world had ended and they were all that was left.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Then he turned and walked away, shouting orders to his warriors.
Alina lowered Dante to the ground, propping him against the stone base of his chair. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, but his hand held hers. Tight. Unwilling to let go.
"Don't let go," he whispered.
