47
I wished for a storm during that horrible ride back to the mountains. I wished the sky would open and rain would wash away the blood and dirt that covered me. But the sky seemed as determined as I not to shed a tear.
I didn’t speak in the hours it took to reach the forest, or stop to tend to the others’ wounds or let them look after mine. Our injuries were not as dangerous as being out in the open.
Dusk had come by the time we reached the canopy of trees. The forest smelled of new life. No one had told the woods of the death that surrounded us.
“It’s my fault.” My voice crackled as I spoke. “It wasn’t the gods who killed the beast, it was me. I started it, and now those people are dead.”
A heavy burden beyond grief weighed on my entire being.
“It’s not your fault.” Emmet guided hi
