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The warrior walked taller now, confident in her own safety. She no longer kept to the edges of the streets.
That made it easier for Rodin to follow, but he couldn’t relax. Each step took the warrior closer to Paskia.
Rodin planned, as far as he could. A blatant attack would be suicide, but warriors weren’t immortal. With a distraction, Rodin might be able to use a blade, might even bring the warrior down.
The thought churned his stomach—that distraction would be Paskia. Rodin couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
The warrior turned into a narrow street between fire-damaged residential buildings, their roofs missing, the walls crumbling. The stink of ash still hung in the air. Another turn, and Rodin read her intention, knew she was approaching Paskia’s location from the rear
