The dawn came gray and heavy, clouds smothering the horizon. No birds sang. The road stretched ahead, but no one reached for reins or saddles. The survivors lingered in the hollow where they had buried their dead, the silence thick as the mist.
Kaelen sat on a fallen log, his sword across his knees. He had cleaned the blade twice already, though flecks of rust still clung near the hilt. His hands worked out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere. Every scrape of cloth across steel brought him back to the ridge, the hiss of arrows, the mercenary who had died clutching his wrist, the look in Mira’s eyes when she whispered that the Ash soldiers weren’t there for coin.
He rubbed harder, though the stain would not lift.
“Steel won’t thank you for drowning it in your thoughts,” Roran said gruff
