age mark. In every white hair. A life lived—
together. The pain of parting because of how
wonderful it had been.
The darkness beyond thinned. Lorcan dug
his hand into the burning wound in his
shoulder.
Elide let out a hacking cough that wrecked
him, yet he took it into his heart, every bit of
it. All that the future might offer.
It did not frighten him.
Again and again, Connall died. Over and over.
Connall lay on the floor of the veranda, his
blood leaking toward the misty river far
below.
His fate—it should have been his fate.
If he walked over the edge of the veranda,
into that roaring river, would anyone mark his
passing? If he leaped, his brother in his arms,
would the river make a quick end for him?