Effrax’s brain disengaged from his body. It floated away, rejecting the sight of the conquered city, ignoring the stench of rot and death. Without conscious thought to guide him, instinct took over. He began crawling laboriously through the c*****e.
He couldn’t head north—Imperials squatted there. He couldn’t head west—the Erastate was enemy territory, as Fyrxav itself now was. That meant he had to go east.
He pulled himself over fallen soldiers, apologizing to each and every one as he went.
“Sorry,” he rasped, unceremoniously heaving himself over a boy too young for war or death, a boy who was likely close to Effrax’s age.
The dull throb in his leg was his constant companion. He looked for survivors, knowing he would find none. The traitor Imperials had likely ransacked the place, pul
