The chaos from outside reached the inside like a rolling thunder—gunfire layered under screams and the thrum of explosions.
Kasanda heard all of it. Every ricochet, every scream. His ears still rang from the last blast, a high tone bleeding through the sounds of breaking stone. He pushed himself up, body taut, scanning the ruined room.
Abraham stirred beneath him, groaning as he shifted upright. His once-crisp polo was torn, smeared with dirt and dust, his forearms streaked with cuts and small bruises. Kasanda looked him over quickly; nothing fatal.
Kasanda himself was untouched. His clothes were singed and grayed at the edges but not torn.
Han got to his feet a few meters away, his shirt hanging open where the blast had tugged at the buttons, a streak of blood down his forearm where he'd shielded his face. He rolled his shoulder once, testing it.
Both men turned toward the settling dust where the wall had been.
They couldn't look away.
