pushed back Morath’s tide, they were alive.
The witches’ lives had bought them a full day
of rest. One day, and then Morath had
marched on Orynth’s walls again.
Aedion slung the heavy fur cloak he’d been
using for a blanket over his shoulders,
wincing at the throbbing ache in his left arm.
A careless wound, when he’d taken his
attention off his shield for a moment and a
Valg foot soldier had managed to slice him.
But at least he wasn’t limping. And at least
the wound the Valg prince had given him had
healed.
Slinging his shield over that same
shoulder, he scooped up his sword and belted
it at his waist as he picked his way through the
labyrinth of sleeping, exhausted bodies. A nod
to Kyllian had the man striding for the city
walls.
But Aedion turned left upon leaving the
lily
(lily)
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