It was raining,the water rhythmically drummed against the canopy above. In the height of early August, the sky should have been a scorched vault of blue, yet here the clouds hung low and bruised, weeping down onto the forest floor.
Alpheo took a bite of salted jerky, the meat tough and stubborn against his teeth, though not as tough as the salted beef they would eat once the jerky was all eaten up.
He leaned his back against the rough bark of an ancient oak, using the thick foliage as roof against the rain.
Once more, he was alone with the woods. In the first months after he had secured his freedom, he had developed a ritual of making camp only in the deepest thickets, sleeping with one eye open and a blade in his hand. Looking back, many of those precautions had been the fruit of a young man's paranoia; no reprisal had come for him then, though in his defense how could he know that the War Emperor would meet his hand in Arlania?
