to obey, though she wished to. Needed to.
Fight back. She should fight back. Rage at
him as he lashed at her, needing an outlet for
his fear and despair.
Lysandra opened her eyes, peering up at
him. At the rage on his face, the hatred.
She managed to stand, her body bleating in
pain. Managed to look him in the eye, even as
Aedion said again with quiet cold, “Get out.”
Barefoot in the snow, naked beneath her
cloak. Aedion glanced at her bare legs, as if
realizing it. And not caring.
So Lysandra nodded, clutching Ansel’s
cloak tighter, and strode into the frigid night.
“Where is she?” Ren asked, a mug of what
smelled like watery soup in one hand, a chunk
of bread in the other. The lord scanned the
tent as if he would find her under the cot, the
hay.