POV: Viggo RorikHe didn't know how to pray. He knew how to beg, and he knew how to demand.Viggo lay on his back on the melted metal of the dais. The sun was a physical weight, pressing him into the hard ridges of the slag. His skin was tight, sunburned to a deep, angry red that radiated heat like a fever.His lips were split in three places. Every time he opened his mouth, the scabs cracked, and he tasted the copper tang of fresh blood."Day four," he croaked.The sound scraped his vocal cords. It felt like swallowing glass.He rolled onto his side. The movement sent a wave of nausea rolling through his gut, ending in a dry heave that convulsed his empty stomach.His abdominal muscles locked up, hard as stone, forcing the bile into his throat. He spat. Nothing came out but white froth."Get up, Viggo."He forced his elbows to take his weight. His triceps trembled, shaking violently. He pushed. His vision swam, black spots dancing in front of the blinding white of the crater floor.H
最後更新 : 2026-06-23 閱讀更多