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The couch Chaol had brought with him
from the southern continent—the couch from
which Yrene had healed him, from which he
had won her heart—was still safely aboard
their ship. Waiting, should they survive, to be
the first piece of furniture in the home he’d
build for his wife.
For the child she carried.
Yrene paused beside his chair, and Chaol
took her slim hand in his, entwining their
fingers. Filthy, both of them, but he didn’t
care. Neither did she, judging by the squeeze
she gave him.
“We outnumber Morath’s legion,” Sartaq
said, sparing them from Hasar’s taunting, “but
how we choose to cleave them while we cut a
path to the city still must be carefully
weighed, so we don’t expend too many forces
here.”
When the real fighting still lay ahead. As if