Max turned his head and saw Freya standing behind a broken wall.
Her fingers were pressed weakly against the cracked stone, as if even standing had become something her body could barely manage. Her face was pale, her hair slightly messy around her cheeks, and her eyes looked empty, drained of anger, pride, and even grief, as if she had cried so much that nothing inside her was left strong enough to come out.
"Are you sure?" Max asked.
There was concern in his voice.
It was not much. Max was not the kind of man who softened easily, and even now his voice remained rough, tired, and restrained. But it was enough for Freya to hear the difference.
