“You're unusually quiet tonight," Thom remarked, drying a mug by the hearth.
Sepharine didn't look up. Her hands tightened the last strap on a worn leather satchel.
“You're not seriously doing this," he said, voice dropping. “You can't."
“I have to."
He stepped closer. “You'll never make it past the ridge. Rogues hunt in packs."
She lifted a hunting knife, slid it into her boot. “I'll move at night. Stay low."
“You're a maid, not a soldier."
“No," she said, straightening. “I'm someone who still believes Draven can walk."
Thom grabbed her arm. “He won't forgive you if you die."
“I'm not doing this for his forgiveness."
“Then why?"
She met his eyes. “Because I promised myself I wouldn't let him rot in that chair while there was still a chance."
He let her go.
Outside, the moon h
