Page 33 of Enslak

The memory surfaced through the darkness.

Carrying her through the sewers.

The way she'd felt in my arms—so light, so small.

Like she weighed nothing at all.

Her entire body had fit against my chest. Her head tucked under my chin. Her arms around my neck.

Fragile.

That was the word.

She was fragile. Breakable. Precious.

I'd carried her through the filth because I couldn't bear the thought of her walking through it.

Couldn't stand the idea of that stench clinging to her. Of the rot touching her skin.

She'd thanked me.

Her voice had been so soft. So grateful.

No one had thanked me in... how long?

A century? More?

I couldn't remember anyone being gentle with me. Couldn't remember anyone touching me without flinching. Without fear twisting their faces.

But she had.

In the cell, she'd wiped the blood from my body with a soft cloth.

Not the harsh spray of the hose. Not rough hands that treated me like an object to be cleaned and discarded.

Gentle touches. Careful.

Like I mattered.

Like I was more than a thing that killed in the pits.

The darkness pulled harder.

I felt myself slipping. Felt my consciousness fragmenting. Scattering like leaves in wind.

But then—

Her voice. Distant. Muffled.

But unmistakably hers.

"You're going to be okay."

The words cut through the darkness like a blade.

I tried to focus on them. Tried to hold on.

But they kept slipping away.