Colt’s Point Of View
We landed in Prague under false names. Cold dawn light slid over the ancient city, painting the cobblestones in silver and ash. I kept my hand tight on Krystal’s waist as we exited the airport, Milo between us in a wheelchair. The wound had slowed him, but not silenced him. His eyes tracked every movement, his mind still sharp.
Elias had arranged for a safe flat in the Malá Strana district, tucked between a defunct cathedral and a forgotten bookstore. We rode in silence, the taxi windows fogged. The driver didn’t speak. Good. I didn’t have words anyway. Just a weight. Just the pressure of time running out.
Krystal was quiet beside me, her gloved fingers tracing circles on her thigh. She hadn’t said much since we left the cabin. But I knew what was on her mind. The
