The road narrowed as it wound into the hills, the path flanked by cliffs on one side and thorn-brambled slopes on the other. The air smelled of damp earth and stone, the promise of rain thickening with each passing hour.
The mercenary company moved in a long, uneven line. The wounded rode when they could, their horses plodding slow and heavy. The living carried the weight of the dead in silence.
Serenya walked near the middle, silent as ever, her cloak brushing the stones. She left no trace of mud behind, though the rest of them slogged with boots caked and wet.
The men and women of the company noticed.
Kaelen heard their mutters:
“She walks like she floats.”
“Doesn’t breathe hard. Doesn’t sweat.”
“She’s watching him.”
Him. Always him.
Kaelen kept his gaze on the road, jaw tight,
