The courtyard was painted the color of old wounds as dawn crept in on bruised light. Wound, tired, alert, the pack moved as one animal with a new limp. Some men bandaged their flanks and claws, while others inspected the gates. Nobody stayed to accuse one another. Their words had been stolen by the night.
Thorn didn't get any rest. As though the patrols were his lifeblood, he paced the outer wall. The map of a thousand calculations behind his eyes, all of which came to the same conclusion—protect, hold, plan—was visible to me when he looked at me.
He approached the courtyard and stopped beside me. His voice was tight as he said, "You did well last night." Not so much praise as fact. "It held, but it cost us."
I wanted to say it wasn’t enough—that the mark still burned, that Korrin’s han
