"Still breathing?" I asked.
Ryvarn didn’t answer. He lay sprawled across the bed like a fallen god, one arm flung over his forehead, the other resting on the blanket like he’d forgotten it was there.
His bare chest rose and fell slowly. The half-mark still glowed faintly, an angry red burned into gold. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Unfortunately," he muttered, cracking one eye open. "Still breathing. Still chained to this hell."
I walked over from the hearth and leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. "You're lucky I pulled you out before they branded your soul too."
"You're the one who smells like smoke."
"You're the one who is smoke."
His lips curled just slightly. Not a smile. More like… warmth that didn't know where to go.
I sat beside him, close enough for our knees to touch.
