The echoing clang of boots on stone alerted Elara before she saw them. She pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the corridor, her pulse quickening. The castle guards marched forward, dragging the limp figure between them. Bartok.
His face was a tapestry of grief, his once-proud bearing reduced to a defeated slump. Yet, even in his weakened state, his eyes burned with something primal—a mix of desperation and something else… something that Elara couldn't decipher. Elara clutched the corner of the wall, peeking just enough to watch the scene unfold without being seen herself.
As the guards passed, Bartok's head lolled to the side, and his gaze met hers. Recognition flashed in his dark, bloodshot eyes. With a sudden burst of energy, he wrenched himself free of the guards' grip and lunged toward her.
"Elara!" His voice was raw, a guttural cry that sent a chill racing down her spine.
