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The smell reached him before the sight did, smoke, sharp and bitter, laced with something older than fire. By the time Legundo saw the castle, it was already burning. Holy water hissed in the air, the night itself turning against him. And through the flames, he saw Owen, crawling, burning, still reaching.
He should’ve stayed back. He didn’t.
Later, when Martyn faced him at the treeline, sword slick with ash, Legundo’s voice came out quiet, almost gentle:
“You should start running.”
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yippeeeeeeee
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I love possessive legs.
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