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herself.
He took it back.
He took back everything he had said to her,
every moment of anger in his heart.
Aedion shoved through his own men,
unable to breathe, to think.
He took it back; he hadn’t meant a word of
it, not really.
Lysandra tried to rise on her injured leg.
The ilken laughed.
“Please,” Aedion bellowed. The word was
devoured by the screams of the dying.
“Please!”
He’d make any bargain, he’d sell his soul
to the dark god, if they spared her.
He hadn’t meant it. He took it back, all
those words.
Useless. He’d called her useless. Had
thrown her into the snow naked.
He took it back.