Thirty-six
The canopy of leaves undulated. The moon shone down, the occasional wispy cloud dimming it. The breeze blew across Brice’s face, carrying the scents of the forest—the honest scents, of plants and soil. The taste of decay was a distant note, nothing Brice need worry about.
He only meant to sit for a moment, but the moment stretched on. Brice breathed deep and slow.
This was peace.
He thought he’d grabbed moments like this before, when he sat on the concrete roofs of hold-outs and stared across to landing pads. But back then, in the basin, there was always the threat from Nyle. And when he sat with Cathal, there was his old commander’s stench. Reminders that this moment was only temporary.
But now, Brice was free. He could leave, travel beyond the fence. There was no Nyle.
