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defensive advantages.
Bodies were a blur beneath, around them.
So many Valg lying on the field. Some
reached pale hands for Farasha. As if they’d
grab her, rip her apart, beg her for help.
The mare trampled them into the mud,
bone snapping and skulls cracking.
He had to be out here. Had to be
somewhere. Alive—hurt, but alive.
She knew it.
The lake was a gray sprawl to her left, a
mockery of the hell to be unleashed at any
moment.
“Lorcan!”
They’d reached the heart of the battlefield,
and Elide slowed Farasha enough to stand in
the stirrups, biting down on the agony in her
ankle. She had never felt so small, so
inconsequential. A speck of nothing in this
doomed sea.