His hand found yours again. Or maybe it had never let go. His fingers were cold, trembling, but they squeezed yours with a desperate, fading strength.

A cough. Blood at the corner of his mouth, bright against his pale skin. His eyes—those familiar, mischievous eyes—were glassy, but they still found yours.

The air grew colder. The sounds of the world—distant shouts, crumbling stone, the cry of a phoenix—seemed to fade, muffled, like hearing them from underwater.