Dawn Carver (3)

10

Casimir

The ground trembles violently, throwing me into the wall as the walls shudder in protest. Dust and debris rains from the ceiling as light flashes through the cells. I move to cover my head, wrapping my cuffed hands over the back of my neck as another explosion rattles the cells. Dust sucks into my lungs, choking me.

Dust falls. Silence ensues. The only sound is the piercing squeal inside my ears.

It takes me several seconds to register the sensation of a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.

"Get up." The voice is distant, secondary to the squealing in my ear. "Casimir, get up!"

The hand forces me to turn. Killian stands over me, hands still cuffed and bleeding. His shirt is torn, dark hair sweeping across his forehead as his chest rises and falls. Light filters through the entrance to the prison cells, dust clouding the air around him as streams of light highlight the outline of his frame.

In my disoriented state, he looks like an avenging angel. I try to rise to my feet, slightly wobbly as I stumble back down. My hands, still cuffed together, fail to catch me. On my back, I stare past Killian to the source of the light.

The entrance to the cells has been blown off.

"Get up," he demands again, his voice gradually growing stronger than the piercing in my ears.

I rise to my feet, leaning against the wall of the cell just as a figure appears at the top of the stairs leading out.

"Killian," I say, inhaling dust. He follows my gaze to the door, shoulders tensing a moment as the silhouetted figure steps down the stairs.

"Well," the voice calls, low and gravelly. "You comin'?"

"Draigh," Killian murmurs, forgetting me entirely and marching towards the entrance. He becomes a mere silhouette too as he embraces our rescuer. "Took you long enough," he comments dryly. "I've been rather hungry down here."

Draigh grumbles a laugh. I move towards them, my fingers twitching for my sides where I usually keep a weapon. As I get closer, the squealing in my ears subsides, giving way to the shouts outside. Draigh, an older male with long hair and a wicked scowl, eyes me up, displeased.

He looks at Killian. "Making a habit of rescuing strays, Killian?"

Killian shoots me an apologetic look, one I'm not so sure is genuine when I notice the small grin he returns to Draigh. I don't bother responding to his quip. Instead, I raise my cuffed hands to Draigh. "Wouldn't mind a rescue from these."

Before I realise what he's doing, Draigh lurches forward and wrenches the cuffs apart with his two bare hands. The chains fall to the ground. I rub my wrists, noting the angry red skin beneath and watch as Draigh uses a cloth to cover his hands before wrenching Killian's silver cuffs off.

Killian releases a sigh of relief as his cuffs fall away. My stomach churns at the sight of his wrists, bloodied and raw, thick indents left in his skin. Averting my gaze, I stare towards the entrance where the dust lingers.

"Which unit are you with?" Killian asks.

"Byrnn's," Draigh responds, straightening his shoulders as he responds to Killian. "They're causing a distraction... well, several."

"Sanaa?"

"Safe."

"And the camp?"

"We had to relocate. Sanaa will fill you in. If we want to get out of there, we have to go now, before the guards come searching."