The road had turned narrow and uneven, pressed between banks of thorn and bramble. Horses picked their way with care, hooves slipping on damp stones.
Kaelen rode near the front, but the sounds behind him carried sharp and clear. Snapped words. The hiss of steel half-drawn before someone shoved it back. The mercenaries were fraying, thread by thread.
It wasn’t just hunger, or grief for the dead left in shallow graves. It was her.
Serenya walked as she always did, hood up, staff in hand, her pace unbroken. She didn’t stumble, didn’t tire. She could have been gliding, for all the world cared. Her presence had become a wound the company worried at, unable to heal.
Roran finally reined his horse to a halt and barked, “We camp here.”
The men obeyed, if only because disobedience required too
