Verothrax looked as pale as one dead. Laid on the altar like a sacrifice that was yet to be concluded.
His skin was cold to touch and his muscles stiff.
He hadn't shown any signs of waking up in hours now and Estelle could not help the unsettling thought that he never would.
From the expression on her face, and how she repeatedly glanced over at him, Dante could read her dismaying thoughts.
Ida sat by Verothrax on the other side. She had said nothing since she came, just sat quietly by his side, stroking his hair.
Dante found it hard to reconcile the depth of this sudden concern and the fact that while he and Estelle could hardly dream of sleeping, she had.
The ever present mask on her face was jarring. Estelle had asked about it once and her response had been, her face was terribly scarred from an event she couldn't remember and so she never took it off.
