The gush of her breath was the loudest sound in the forest. She hesitated, staring at the mire with a distressed gaze. She walked south with great haste, until she was stopped at the curve by a puddle of rainwater and ox dung that stretched clear across the road. She carried a sack over one shoulder and held a staff in her hand. Peering past a veil of late summer leaves, he watched the woman approach. Smoke crept to a vantage along a curve in the road. Smoke doesn't keep count of the dead, but I do. It's likely there are slayings I haven't discovered yet. Though he's just eighteen, at least 172 lives have ended against the edge of his sword. They are nothing against the fear that follows behind her-and my brother's presence she suspects not at all. A gauntlet of imagined fears lies before her-roots to bruise her toes, windfalls to block the way, wolves within the shadows-but none of these slow her pace. She is alone, hurrying south toward NefiĆ³n. He is a shadow, lost amid the mottled shadows of the trees. Visualize my brother, Smoke, as he stalks the forest road.
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May 2023
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