Ilkar didn't wait for his men, nor did he care about Zain and Elara and Martha on the roof.
In one swift, terrifying movement, he hoisted Eiravyne's frail, limp body over his shoulder like a prize, ignoring her weak groan of pain as her bruised ribs slammed against his iron armor.
He shoved past his guards and plunged back into the dark, suffocating stairwell alone, descending into the burning place with a desperate, manic speed.
For Eiravyne, the descent was a dizzying blur of agony and ash.
Her head hung over his back, her vision upside down as stone steps, roaring flames, and crumbling plaster rushed past.
The air grew rapidly hotter, thick with the stench of scorched iron and burning flesh.
Every violent step Ilkar took jarred her broken frame, but he moved like a man completely possessed, muttering dark, disjointed promises under his breath.
"They won't take you... no one takes what is mine... we end it down here..."
