The fire burned low, its smoke crawling sluggishly through the mist that clung to the Ashwood. The hollow felt too small, too crowded with silence and ragged breathing. Branches whispered overhead, and every crackle of the flames seemed to echo like a scream.
Kaelen sat with his back to the stones, sword laid across his knees. His eyes stung from the smoke, but he didn’t dare close them. Sleep meant loosening his grip. Sleep meant not hearing the horn when it came.
Around him, the survivors shifted restlessly. Fifteen, give or take. Roran among them, half-conscious, his head tipped back against the rock. The woman with the arrow wound lay on her side, sweat shining on her brow. The boy, Soren, Kaelen learned his name was—kept picking at the hilt of his dagger as though he could rub coura
