The blade bit into her neck, as he hissed, "Scream, and I'll slit your throat right now." His voice was a low growl, barely audible . His knee crushing hard into her ribs, grinding against the bone, her shallow breaths rasping beneath his weight. He doubted she could muster enough air to cry out, let alone scream. Her head jerked in a tight nod, the knife's edge etching a thin, stinging line of crimson across her throat.
Now what? His mind churning in thought. Killing her was the logical and safe move. She could have allies lurking, ready to pounce. That's why he'd kept his voice low. At best, she'd turn on him the moment his back was turned. Everyone always did. Adrenaline raced through his veins.
"Are you working with anyone?" he asked, making his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.
Her head twitched side to side, a faint shake, her eyes wide and unblinking. Could he trust her? The knife still pressed into her neck, a bead of blood welling where the blade met skin. Slowly, he eased the pressure. Zephyrion studied her—really studied her. She was young, maybe no older than him, her face pale beneath a smudge of dirt. Her royal blue cloak, tattered at the hem, hung over matching pants and a shirt, the fabric too fine for this grimy place. Pinned beneath his knee, her slender frame offered no resistance, no hidden armor. Just a short sword, discarded nearby. She wouldn't last an hour out there.
"No need for her blood on my hands," he thought, a bitter knot twisting in his gut. Killing left a sour taste, like bile rising in his throat. Killing a woman? He'd dodge that stain on his soul if he could.
Zephyrion rose swiftly, the dagger sliding into its sheath with a whisper of leather. He stepped to the short sword lying on the floor, its was balanced decently. Scooping it up, he glanced over his shoulder. She hadn't budged an inch, her body rigid, her gaze locked on him with the cold, wary intensity of a cornered animal. He extended his hand, palm up, the gesture feeling foreign, almost reckless.
"I don't want to kill you. Not if you're truly alone," he said, his voice steady but laced with doubt. He studied her. She hesitated, her eyes flickering with confusion, then slowly reached out. Her fingers brushed his, her palm surprisingly soft—unscarred, unworked, she'd likely never known a day of hardship.
He pulled her to her feet, her slight weight barely registering. "Get out. Stick to the shadows by the edge. You might survive the night," he said, his tone icy, sharp enough to cut through the stifling air. He pointed to the door, its rusted hinges groaning faintly in the silence, and thrust the sword toward her.
She stood frozen, her breath catching. Slowly, she reached for the blade, her other hand grazing the thin red line at her throat, where blood had already begun to dry. Her fingers closed around the sword's hilt, and her eyes dropped to the floor. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, fragile yet heavy with something unspoken.
A beat of silence hung between them, thick and taut. "Go. Now." his voice harsh, slicing through the moment like a blade.