Whispers exploded like sparks in dry grass around them.
Alistair's heart lurched violently.
"Enough." His voice cracked like a whip. "One more word about Madam Josephine's fate, and I will have you beaten to death."
The reek of scorched meat clawed at his throat, but he choked it down as he forced himself forward, every step dragging like chains. He prayed this was some cruel trick, that the corpse was not real.
Then he saw it. That unmistakable dent on the skull where Josephine had taken a sword meant for him.
Back when he was just fifteen, basking in the King's approval for the first time, they had been ambushed on the road home. She had thrown herself in front of him without hesitation.
For three agonizing months, he had kept vigil at her bedside until she finally opened her eyes.
