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For long miles, his leaking blood had
warmed her sides as he lay sprawled over her.
The warm trickle had long stopped. Frozen.
So had he.
She hadn’t the heart to dislodge him, to
leave his dead body on the field to be
trampled. His blood had frozen him to her
anyway.
Each step was an effort of will, her own
wounds healing faster than the soldiers’
around her. Many fell during the march
toward Perranth. Some were picked up, hauled
by their companions or strangers.
Some did not rise again.
The resistance was not supposed to break
apart so soon.
The grumbling worsened the closer to
Perranth they got, despite a quick few hours of
rest that first night. Where is the queen?
Where is her fire?