shot upright, a hand going to his sword.
Whitethorn thumbed free the hatchet at his
side, a knife appearing in his other hand, and
Gavriel drew his sword.
But then a two-note whistle echoed, and
Lorcan’s legs wobbled so violently he sat
back onto the rock where he’d been perched.
Gavriel whistled back, and Lorcan was
grateful for it. He wasn’t sure he had the
breath.
Then she was there, panting from the
climb, her cheeks rosy in the cool night air.
“What happened?” Whitethorn asked.
Lorcan scanned her face, her posture.
She was fine. She was unhurt. There was no
enemy on her tail.
Elide’s eyes met his. Wary and uncertain.
“I met someone.”
Elide had thought she was about to die.