It’s dark. Not just inside this grass hut, but in his mind, too. Urutu tries to turn over. Pain lances through the wound just below his collarbone and he falls back, hissing air. The healers have worked on him. By some miracle—or perhaps by design—the arrow had missed piercing anything vital. It tore muscle, though, so that arm will always be weaker. Slower. It’ll ache in the cold. Urutu clenches his jaw, but not with pain this time.
With anger.
He bites down on it. He has more reason than most to know how dangerous anger can be. But he can’t stop it. It rushes through him like an unleashed tide.
He’s angry with Python for escaping. For how he tainted the mind of a promising young Whisperer.
He’s angry with Mamba. How could the boy be so stupid?
He’s angry with that girl with the bow
