45
A Story Owed
Drystan had screamed himself into exhaustion. It had been energy wasted upon gaolers who let the words slide over them, around them, unaffected. Aside from delivering food and drink, the Medvedev were notably absent. Immune to their pleas, indifferent to their suffering.
Valen watched as Drystan first spiraled into a muted anger, hurling his whispered insults into the wind as he slowly succumbed to his need for rest. He had words still resting upon his tongue when the soft snores sounded in the cell.
Valen reached a hand over. He let himself brush the hair, which had grown longer in their weeks on the road, back off Drystan’s face. He stopped himself from doing more. There were first things he must say, that no one but Drystan could hear, and once heard, Drystan could d
