The morning was cruel.The air outside bit against my skin, sharp and damp, carrying the scent of earth and ash. The world was quiet in that way that wasn’t peaceful, but tense, like every shadow hid an enemy, like every branch might crack under a boot that wasn’t ours.Xavier’s grip on my hand was iron. Too tight, almost painful, but I didn’t loosen. He needed me steady, and truthfully, I needed him just as much. His steps were slow, uneven, each one a battle against his battered body. The bandages wrapped around his side were already spotted with fresh blood, and each breath he pulled seemed too shallow, too fragile.But he kept walking. Of course he did. Xavier Orlando never stopped moving forward, even if the ground itself wanted to swallow him whole.The leader, an older man with a scar running across his temple and eyes like stone, marched ahead, silent and sharp. Behind him, the small group of soldiers flanked us, their boots crunching against the dirt path in harsh rhythm. My
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