He's silent until Ten finishes speaking, his body tense and rigid. When Ten says not to shoot them again, Luka lets the crossbow fall from his grip. His hand burns again against the cool air, and he balls it into a fist.

"Yeah? I've heard that one before." He retorts, tears trickling. "A lot of talk and not a lot of action. And more people keep on dying."

He digs his nails into his palm and wishes he was anywhere else.

"Who's here with you?"