Chapter Eighteen
Searon brushed his long brown hair from his eyes as he sat on a log by the smokeless fire. He sighed.
Sh’on sat next to him, patting him on the back. “I know it looks grim, Searon, but we can’t give up hope.”
“Hope?” Searon asked. “We’ve reached Kaelier, and it’s been overrun. Even with the small force of women, or Ikchani, or whatever they want to be called, even with the few they left there to hold the city, we are still not strong enough to fight them.”
“Perhaps your letters will reach our allies in time,” Sh’on suggested.
“Allies?” Searon laughed. “The kheshlars will never help us. They have a city to rebuild. And my brother? He’s so far south, he’s near touching the ocean. And he’s so wrapped up in politics being a duke—blast, he might even be king by now for all
