Alaric's pov
She was curled in on herself, her bare feet pale against the damp earth. Her head rested against the rough stone armrest, her posture suggesting she had succumbed to exhaustion mid-sob. And then I saw it – the stark crimson stain seeping through the roughly wrapped fabric around her lower leg.
Ranon reached her first, dropping to his knees beside her with a strangled cry. “Elowen!” His voice, usually so steady, trembled with undisguised fear.
She stirred weakly, her long eyelashes fluttering open like she was fighting her way back from a deep, troubled dream. “Ranon…?” Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with exhaustion.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he breathed, his hands hovering over her, as if afraid to touch her and break her further. His eyes darted over her pale face, her slumped posture, the bloodied bandage.
Theron and I reached them seconds later, our breath coming in ragged gasps. The sight of her – so small, so vulnerable, her face ashen and her e
