stashed in a pack by the castle wall when Ren
Allsbrook and a Bane soldier reached the top
of the battlements, a half-conscious Aedion
between them.
There was so much blood on him.
Lysandra ran for them, ignoring her deep
limp, the splintering pain rippling in her left
leg, in her right shoulder. Down the
battlements, a healer worked on the injured
Abraxos, the Thirteen, coated in his blood,
now standing vigil.
“What happened?” Lysandra skidded to a
halt before Aedion, who managed to lift his
head to give her a grim smile.
“Valg prince,” Ren said, his own body
coated in blood, face pale with exhaustion.
Oh gods.
“He didn’t walk away,” Aedion rasped.
Ren snapped, “And you didn’t rest long
enough, you stupid bastard. You tore your
lily
(lily)
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