Somewhere in the Grand Canyon
Akram and Yashyn did not slow their pace, at least not outwardly. While the gel had been effective enough to prevent Akram's certain death, it had not erased the pain entirely, leaving him under constant strain.
Every step felt as if it were tearing further into his side, his face tightening with pain with each meter covered.
Yet he did not complain. He simply endured it. He could not afford to slow down for something as selfish as his own suffering. The pressure had been made very clear after Yashyn told him he felt that something was wrong.
Yashyn, for his part, had indeed reduced his speed, matching it to Akram's maximum pace. He knew Akram would not last if they pushed any faster.
The young leader, running just behind his mentor, carefully observed Yashyn's back. He had taken a direct hit from an explosive chestnut; his clothes and poncho looked half-melted, yet his skin did not appear severely damaged, aside from a few scratches.
