Her fingers clutched at his robes, weak yet desperate, as though that single grasp tethered her to the world.
With the last fragment of strength she possessed, Caelith forced the words past her failing breath, "Back alley… of the Shadow Guard… three days… they will kill you…"
The words broke apart between shallow breaths.
And then, her hand fell limp. Darkness claimed her entirely.
"Caelith—!" Rhaegar's voice shattered into something wild.
He gathered her into his arms and ran.
He ran like a man pursued by fate itself.
Through narrow streets and silent alleys, past shuttered doors and sleeping houses—he did not slow, did not falter.
The night wind tore at his cloak, but the chill in his arms was far worse.
She was so cold.
Her breath was so faint it seemed it might vanish between one heartbeat and the next.
Blood stained her all over—her face, her hands, her garments—crimson against pallor. From her brow, a wound still wept, streaking her skin in dark rivulets.
