A cool touch on his blistering skin. He wheeled, grabbing something, raising his sword. “Knighton Villiers.” He stopped. He knew that voice, that name. Slate blue eyes stared up at him. He blinked. He knew those eyes, even if they weren’t always that colour. “Knighton,” she murmured, and he stared at her lips as they moved so slowly in comparison to the rushing of his blood, “they’ve surrendered.” Vee. Stillness. Eyes on them. The silence of held breaths. Hesperian swords on the deck. His ears popped and it all rushed back in.
