Chair

Nicholas stirred, the world around him sluggish and blurred. The first thing he noticed was the sharp, acrid smell of smoke lingering in the air. He blinked several times, the faint light of the candle swayed against the shifting of his body.

“Emberline,” he croaked, his voice rasping in his throat like sand. His mouth was dry still.

A shadow shifted near the far wall, and then her figure came into view. She was slumped in the chair, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her face was pale, slick with sweat. A faint tremor ran through her frame, and even in the dim light, he could see the light crimson stain spreading across the side of her dress.

“Emberline,” he said again, louder this time.

She raised her head slowly, as if it weighed more than she could bear. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding even in pain, fixed on him.