𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ-ꜰᴏᴜʀ

Voices in the Dark.

🧶

She wasn’t entirely unconscious—she could feel the faint throbbing of pain echoing through her limbs, the dull ache in her ribs, the gritty sting of sand and dust clinging to her skin. But her mind refused to sharpen, her body unwilling to respond.

Somewhere above her, distant but growing closer, voices murmured. She could tell, vaguely, that the ceiling had stopped collapsing, that the once-roaring crowd had fallen silent. Either they had been crushed beneath the debris or they had fled back into the maze, unwilling to stick around in the aftermath.

Then—movement. A rough, unceremonious tug at her arm, dragging her over shattered stone. The pain was enough to force a weak gasp from her lips, but still, her limbs refused to cooperate, her fingers twitching uselessly against the ground.

Someone was pulling her from the wreckage.

For a fleeting moment, a foolish, desperate part of her thought it might be him.

Luke.

But no. He had been pulled away before the ceiling came down—she remembered that much, even through the haze of dust and pain. His expression had been twisted in something that looked almost like fear. Not fear for himself. Not fear of dying beneath the rubble. Fear for her. He had tried to call her name, but the chaos had swallowed his voice whole. Then he was gone. Off to finish what he had started, to carve out the final act of a tragedy she couldn’t stop. And she—she had been left behind, buried under the ruins of their battlefield.

The jagged edges of stone bit into her back as the person dragging her gave another hard yank, and a spike of pain jolted through her spine.

“Careful,” a familiar voice hissed, sharp with warning.

“Whatever,” the second voice grumbled impatiently. This one belonged to the person actually pulling her, and they didn’t seem to care that she was barely clinging to consciousness. Their grip on her arm tightened as they jerked her forward again, and her scraped skin burned in protest. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Unconscious anyway. It’s fine.”

Alive. Barely.

Her head lolled to the side as they continued hauling her through the debris, her hair matted with dust and sweat, strands clinging to the dried blood on her face. If she had the strength, she might’ve laughed.

She was alive. But she wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Her ribs ached with every breath. Her limbs were too heavy, her fingers twitching weakly as if reaching for something—or someone—who wasn’t there.

She wanted to speak, to demand they stop treating her like a sack of potatoes, but her lips wouldn’t move. The words dissolved in her throat before they ever reached her tongue. The darkness behind her eyes swirled, thick and suffocating. She tried to fight against it, to hold onto something—but the effort was useless.

"She looks bad. You could break her ribs dragging her like that," the first person said, their voice edged with concern.

"She's survived this far. She can survive me pulling her out," the second person retorted, their tone brisk, impatient. But their movements slowed slightly, the drag less rough—though Rory imagined it was more because the first person had asked than because they actually cared about her well-being.

The hands gripping her arms shifted, adjusting their hold, and the jostling made a fresh bolt of pain shoot through her ribs. She might’ve flinched, but it was hard to tell if her body even reacted anymore.