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She dragged her eyes, heavy and burning,
toward the sound.
His shining hair hung limp, matted with
blood. And those turquoise eyes were
smudged with purple beneath—and utterly
bleak. Empty.
A rough tent stood around them, the sole
light provided by a lantern swinging in the
bitter wind that crept in through the flaps.
She’d been piled high with blankets, though
he sat on an overturned bucket, still in his
armor, with nothing to warm him.
Lysandra peeled her tongue off the roof of
her mouth and listened to the world beyond
the dim tent.
Chaos. Shouting. Some men screaming.
“We yielded Perranth,” Aedion said
hoarsely. “We’ve been on the run for two days
now. Another three days, and we’ll reach
Orynth.”