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Summary
"Lune."
The relief in his voice hit like a knife sliding between ribs.
He surged forward until the bars stopped him, clawed hands wrapping eagerly around the metal despite the negativity burning against his palms. Once, he would have thrown himself against the cage hard enough to crack stone. Once, he had screamed threats until his voice tore raw. Bargained. Wept. Promised anything.
Now he only looked hungry.
Not for freedom.
For him.
Lune hated the hot, awful flutter that stirred in his ribs every time Sol lit up at the sight of him.