The world had gone gray.
Mist pooled in the hollow of the ravine, curling low over the sluggish stream. The air stank of blood and wet earth. A crow called once from the canopy far above, thin and distant, then fell silent again.
Kaelen crouched at the water’s edge, cupping his hands to rinse the blood from his arm. The cut on his shoulder burned with each movement, the water turning pink as it ran off his skin. His reflection rippled in the current, pale face, hollow eyes, streaks of dirt and soot. The prince who wasn’t. The mercenary who couldn’t save his men.
Behind him, the survivors murmured in low voices. Roran had gathered them close beneath the overhang of rock, those still able to stand helped the wounded, binding gashes with torn cloth, setting broken limbs with splints cut fr
