Lowell’s body trembles against the cold bite of the silver chains. Every muscle strains as he pulls, but it only burns deeper into his flesh. His wrists are raw. His breathing is uneven. But his eyes — his eyes remain fixed on the boy.
His boy.
He watches the sorcerer cradle the child like a delicate object. The chanting has not stopped. The ancient words float in the air, heavy and dark, swirling around them.
Lowell pulls again. The chains tighten. His skin sizzles. His knees threaten to give way, but he forces himself upright. His son is crying softly now, reaching out tiny arms that tremble with fear.
“I need to get to him,” Lowell whispers to himself, voice hoarse and cracking.
He pulls harder. The chain bites deeper, slicing into his wrist. Blood trickles down, but he doesn’t car
