She can barely hear him anymore, just hanging onto the last threads consciousness and drifting by the moment. Her eyelashes only flutter at the sound of his voice, snowflakes clinging to them as her struggling breaths fog in front of her face. She's a dead weight when he hefts her up, unable to help him or unaware enough of what's happening to even try. Nothing but willpower had been powering her up until now, and her body was running on fumes now.

If she could realize how pathetic she looks right then, she'd probably be annoyed with herself. It wasn't often that she found herself in such dire straits — not since she was much younger, and much less experienced. The Scythian of history were known as fierce warriors, and she'd earned the moniker with blood. She was the one you called in with there weren't any other options. When you couldn't afford to fail. When the stakes were too high to trust someone else.

And here she was now, an inch from blacking out, relying on some pilot she barely knew to get her ass somewhere relatively safe. Weakly, she clung to him, some reflex causing her fingers to tighten slightly in his jacket.