their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s
roaring wolf insignia.
The rest of the army that she’d promised.
That they’d been waiting for.
They must have intercepted Morath—and
been obliterated.
Shouts rose from the army behind him as
the realization rippled through the ranks. One
female voice in particular carried over the din,
her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s
helmet.
The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated
head that had landed near his boots stared
skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of
terror.
How many had Ansel known? How many
friends had been amongst them?
It wasn’t the time to seek out the young
queen, to offer his condolences. Not when
neither of them would likely survive the day.
lily
(lily)
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