“Astra,” I whisper, gathering her carefully in my arms. She weighs almost nothing, feels as fragile as spun glass. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy, but no words come. Instead, there’s a horrible rattling sound in her chest with each labored breath—the death rattle I’ve heard too many times on battlefields. The sound that means someone is drowning in their own blood.

“No,” I breathe, pressing my ear to her chest. The wet, gurgling sound is getting worse. Internal bleeding. Probably punctured lungs from broken ribs.

She tries to speak, her lips moving soundlessly, but only more of that terrible rattling comes out of her...