The war horn sounded three times before noon.
The first call echoed through the trees like a wounded animal, low and mournful. The second was sharper, closer, a blade of sound that cut through the morning air. The third rattled the windows of the hunting lodge, shaking dust from the rafters and sending a tremor through the floorboards beneath my feet.
Closer each time.
I sat on the edge of the narrow bed and changed the bandages on Darius's ribs while Lina kept watch at the window. Her silhouette was sharp against the gray light, her body tense, her fingers gripping the rough wood of the frame. Every time I pressed clean cloth against his wounds, a matching burn flared under my own skin. The bond did not care that the injuries were his. It simply shared them, transmitting each pulse of
