Daphne knelt beside Harith, hovering her hands over him, careful not to touch—as if afraid that contact would either kill him or confirm something far worse. The thought gnawed at the back of her mind.
Harith groaned, still conscious, but his breathing was shallow. Rough. Every breath dragged like broken glass down his throat.
"Harith," she whispered, her voice trembling and thin, barely audible over the crackling of the dim, sickly candles. "Can you hear me?"
His fingers twitched weakly, a small, stubborn defiance against whatever force was pulling him under. "Y-Yeah," he rasped, the sound of it making Daphne flinch. "Still here… but everything feels… cold. It's not that painful though," he gave a small, pitiful laugh, "but I think I'm running out of blood."
Daphne's pulse thundered in her ears. "You passed through me," she said shakily. "Like I wasn't real. Or... like you weren't."
