Julian remained on his knees, his hands still clasped together in a white-knuckled grip. He was drenched in a cold, shivering sweat, and his muscles were locked in a state of agonizing tension.
Slowly, the terrifying thrumming of the corrosion in his left eye began to recede, the violet stain draining away until only the clear, piercing blue remained.
"Julian!"
The shout was hoarse, raw from a night of frantic restraint.
Julian's head swayed to the side as his strength finally evaporated. Through the haze, he saw a dark shape charging across the transparent crystal floor, having broken through the knights that had been keeping him away.
Alaric looked like a man possessed; his hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and his cloak had been discarded somewhere near the threshold.
"Don't… don't burn it," Julian rasped. His throat felt like it was filled with glass, his voice barely a whisper.
