Chapter 158: The Last Procession (5)

An injured man near the rear stumbled when his damaged leg finally gave out.

It happened without warning.

One moment, Luka was limping forward with another survivor braced beneath his arm, his face gray from pain but his feet still moving. The next, the wounded leg folded beneath him as though whatever had been holding it together had simply stopped. His knee struck the road hard enough to tear through the bloodstained bindings, and both palms slapped against the stone as he fought to keep his face from following.

The survivor supporting him had no chance to release Luka’s weight and was dragged down beside him. Their fall sent a ripple through the rear of the procession as others veered around them, too frightened and too exhausted to stop without being ordered.

Farther ahead, the funeral cart swayed upon the shoulders of six bearers while the Bell House remained frustratingly distant above the road.

Dorian saw it happen so he pushed back against the fleeing survivors, caught Luka beneath one arm, and hauled upward. "Up! Get your feet under you!"

Luke tried. His good leg found the road, but the wounded one collapsed the instant he placed any weight on it. A strangled cry escaped between his teeth as his body folded against Dorian, nearly dragging the Guildmaster down with him.

Sweat poured down Luka’s exhausted face, cutting pale tracks through the dirt as he shook his head. "I can’t." The man’s face twisted in pain as he tried to stand. "My leg’s gone... you have to carry me."

"Lean on me and try again." Dorian reset his footing and pulled harder. "Come on, Luka. The Bell House isn’t far."

"Might as well be."

They managed to raise him halfway before the leg failed again. Luka hit the road on one knee, and the survivor who had been helping him staggered away to keep from falling a second time. The man was just too big and heavy for the both of them.

Before Dorian could try again, stone cracked behind them with enough force to carry over the pounding feet.

Misha looked back from between Caius and Carl.

The last of Tobias’ barricades was splitting down the center.

A Husher vaulted over the broken barricade and landed less than forty paces away. Its head jerked toward the fallen men, and then it accelerated. Several more emerged behind it.

Dorian saw them, and Misha saw the exact moment his intention changed. His hand remained wrapped around Luka’s forearm, but he had stopped pulling. His gaze went from the approaching Hushers to the procession ahead, measuring the widening distance with the cold, immediate calculation of someone deciding which part of the group could still be saved.

Luka noticed too. His fingers tightened around Dorian’s sleeve. "No."

There was more disbelief than fear in the word.

Dorian looked down at him without answering. Ahead, the survivors still capable of running were gathering around the funeral cart. Every second he remained behind widened the gap between himself and the people he had already decided could survive.

"Dorian." Luke followed his gaze, and disbelief hardened into something uglier. "Don’t you dare leave me here."

For another second, Dorian remained beside him, then he carefully loosened Luka’s fingers from his sleeve.

"I’m sorry." His voice remained low and controlled. "I can’t risk more lives carrying one man who can no longer keep pace."

Luka stared at him as though the words had struck harder than anything on the Floor. His hand rose instinctively toward the insignia stitched across his shoulder: a broken crown caught inside a ring of thorns.

"I’m Blackthorn."

That was all he needed to say.

He did not remind Dorian how many Floors he had followed him through. He did not list the fights he had survived under his orders or the hours he had spent beneath the funeral cart because his Guildmaster had told him to carry it. He simply gave Dorian the name of their guild as though that should have been enough, as though the crest itself came with some promise that those wearing it would not discard one another the instant one became inconvenient.

Dorian’s mouth tightened. "I know."

"Please! Don’t leave me!."

His gaze stayed on Luka as he begged. "I’m sorry."

Then he ran.

Misha, who saw everything, could only stare. It would have been ugly enough if the man had been just another survivor, but he wasn’t. And Dorian had left him anyway.

The part she hated most was that she understood the decision. She knew there were situations where three people dying to save one was not heroism but bad mathematics with prettier intentions. She had spent enough of her old life around sick people to know that wanting everyone to survive did not make survival equally possible.

But she also remembered Dorian standing across from her at the Crematorium, insisting that his people needed protection more than they needed her supplies. He had demanded Misha to honor that bargain.

Apparently, no one gets left behind only lasted until Dorian was the one expected to stay.

"That fucker."

Caius turned toward her. "What happened?"

"Nothing Carl needs to repeat." Misha pulled herself away from both of them. "Keep moving."

Pain knifed through both thighs. Her legs almost folded again, but anger found strength where exhaustion had left none. She staggered back toward the injured man, each step clumsy and painful.

Carl caught her sleeve. "Shana?"

"Go with the others." She looked down at him and forced enough firmness into her voice to make him hesitate. "I’m going back."

Caius swore under his breath and followed without hesitation. Misha should have known better than to expect one sensible decision from a boy who had apparently spent another lifetime learning all of her worst habits.

"Cai, stay with Carl."

"No, I won’t." He moved beneath her arm again when she swayed, catching more of her weight before she could argue.

"That’s very disobedient of you."

"I inherited it from you."

"You’re not my son."

"And yet," Caius said, adjusting her arm over his shoulders. "I distinctly remember being told I was your favorite."

Misha stared at the side of his face. Even now, he found a way to answer back. She would have smacked him if she trusted herself to remain upright afterward. Instead, she let more weight settle against him and staggered back toward Luka.

"Misha!" Dorian shouted when he saw them. "Come back! We can’t carry him at this pace."

She turned her head just enough to glare at him. "We had terms."

"The Floor Quest is more important. The king must reach the bell."

"Fuck the quest, and fuck you!"

Dorian’s expression hardened, but he did not come back. He turned toward the funeral cart and kept running. Perhaps he could call it leadership later, if he survived long enough to find prettier words for cowardice.

A blue-white blur raced past her.

Hiiro broke away from the front of the formation. He sprinted past Dorian, and reached the fallen man before Misha did. The idiot dropped into a crouch beside the injured man and pulled one of Luka’s arms across his shoulders, then he looked past him at the approaching Hushers, made a face, and exhaled through his teeth.

"This is such a bad play," Hiiro panted as he hooked the man’s arms across his shoulders. "We’re definitely throwing."

"Then stop talking and carry," Misha snapped.

"I can lift and complain at the same time." He planted his feet. "It’s called multitasking."

Hiiro hauled Luka upright on his own and pulled one of the man’s arms across his shoulders. Luka was built like a wall, but Hiiro barely seemed bothered by the weight. The boy had enough raw strength to shift boulders when he put his body behind it, so carrying one injured man was hardly a problem. The real difficulty was increasing their pace as they walked.

A gunshot cracked past them.

The leading Husher’s head snapped sideways as an ice-coated round tore through its skull. Frost burst from the exit wound, and the corpse spun across the stones before collapsing into the path of those behind it.

Astrid stood several paces away with her sidearm raised in both hands, A pale thread of frost curled from the barrel as she adjusted her aim and fired again. The second round shattered a Husher’s knee, dropping it hard enough that two more stumbled across its body.

"Move!" Astrid called. "I’ll cover you!"

Hiiro and Luka had barely gained five paces when his good foot caught the ground. Hiiro went down with him.

Misha turned and saw the man shoved Hiiro away before he could reach for him again. His terror had not vanished, it had simply become honest.

"Enough." Luka’s breathing came in short, ragged pulls. "Leave me..."

"We can still drag you," Hiiro insisted. "We already committed to the rescue quest, you can’t cancel halfway through."

Luka dragged his sword free and planted its tip against the road to steady himself. Both hands shook around the hilt. "You know you can’t... not at this speed."

Caius shifted as if to release Misha and help, but she tightened her arm around his shoulder, not to stop him, but because she knew that if he put her down, she would not rise again.

Hiiro looked between them and the fallen man, searching for a solution that did not exist.

Luka was terrified. There was no noble calm settling over him, no sudden acceptance that made death beautiful. Tears stood along his lower lashes, and his breathing shook. One hand kept slipping against the sword grip because he fingers would not stop trembling. He was afraid to die, but he had simply reached the point where he understood what would happen if they kept trying.

"If you drag me at this speed, they catch all of us." His eyes moved toward the Hushers spilling around Astrid’s fallen targets. "Don’t make me watch all of you die too."

Hiiro looked down at him, the usual bravado slipping from his face. "I can fight!"

"And then what? If you stay here... you’ll burn through everything you have before you even reach the others." His breathing hitched, but he swallowed before continuing. "Then when they need you... you’ll have nothing left."