Zevryn placed his hand gently over the girl's head, his palm trembling as it rested on her tangled hair. A deep wound marred her scalp, blood seeping sluggishly from the gash, mingling with the dirt that clung to her skin.
His gaze trailed lower, and his chest tightened with every injury he counted. Cuts, bruises,marks, her fragile body bore them all like cruel medals of suffering.
He had faced countless battles, seen death rip through armies, yet nothing tore his heart so viciously as seeing her like this.
She looked exactly like his Liliath.
Even if Kaelith's rational words echoed in his mind that this couldn't be her, Zevryn clung desperately to the flicker of hope blazing in his chest.
What if? What if fate, in its twisted mercy, had brought her back to him? What if this broken, bloodied figure truly was his beloved wife, his queen?
