The tomb's firmament is cold, and neither speak as he soars.

It's thick in the air—mortality. It weighs like gravity, the bones of his sire a baleful, alabaster harbinger in the distance, and Sesshoumaru's eyes harden, his arm reflexively holding her closer.

She clings.

The pit of his stomach turns leaden, her soft lavender scent filling his senses, and he suppresses the urge to bury his nose in her hair and breathe in the reassurance he needs.

"Sesshoumaru—"

Her pulse throbs like Obon drums against his skin.

"—are you alright?"

Resolve sets his jaw. "Hold on, Miko."