Silence.
Soft sleep.
A faint heartbeat.
Daya?
Daya groaned and pushed himself up. There was snow under his hands. He was in some sort of alley, with blind walls on either side. How had he ended up here?
His head hurt. His hand hurt; his muscles hurt, his eyes hurt. Pain spiked up his leg. He now remembered: that was from when he had twisted his ankle jumping down from the room where the soldiers were all unconscious. Damn—he was a mining executive, not a bandit; clumsy and awkward even as a boy.
Sparks swirled under the skin of his hand. Traces of ash still adhered to his clothing. His trousers had ripped when he had climbed out the shattered window. Blood trickled down his leg where glass had cut the skin. He dared rest only now, this far from the council building, but it was far to
