Roy and Mila supported Barlow between them as they passed through Alubarna's gates and onto the stone-paved road blackened by war.
Barlow's left arm lay across Mila's shoulders, his right across Roy's. His legs still carried him forward, but his knees bent less and less, and his soles scraped intermittently against the paving stones.
His head hung low, his chin almost touching his chest. Every few steps, he drew a deep breath, as though trying to suppress the pain seeping from the wound between his ribs.
Roy gripped the wrist draped over his shoulder with one hand and held the other just behind Barlow's back, ready at any moment to catch his second-oldest brother if he collapsed.
Mila said nothing. Her steps were shorter and steadier than usual, and before setting each foot down, she tested the gaps between the stones with her toes, afraid of tripping over something and jostling Barlow.
Damian stood in the shadows just inside the gate, his white Justice Coat fluttering slightly in the wind spilling down from the city walls.
He had just returned from the prisoner handover, still holding a detention register delivered by the Marines. Fisher's fingerprint was stamped on its cover.
From a distance, he saw his younger brother and sister coming through the gateway with a blood-soaked man between them. He shoved the register into his adjutant's hands and strode over.
Only when he drew closer did he see just how many wounds Barlow had. The teasing expression he had prepared slowly faded, but by the time he reached them, he had forced the corners of his mouth up again.
"So even you have days like this."
Damian stopped, folded his arms, and looked down at the battered Barlow propped between their younger siblings. The curve of his lips fell