Noah turned around, rummaged through the pile of supplies near the tent's entrance, and handed me a large, flat slab of slate and a sharpened piece of chalk-stone.
"Here," he said, his voice dropping the playful edge. He looked at me with a raw, protective intensity. "But if you start swaying or your eyes go glassy, I'm taking it away. King's orders."
"Yeah, yeah. Put it on the tab, King," I muttered, already propping the slate against my knees.
The stinging in my arm was a dull throb that beat with the same rhythm as my heartbeat, but the mental image of that red-scale serpent hovering over the cribs was a much sharper pain.
That was dangerous. Too dangerous. What if I hadn't noticed the change in the air and the smell on time?
The cries from that mother wouldn't have been ones of appreciation but bitter sadness.
Never. I never want to see the tears of a mother crying over the death of her child.
I have to make this work.
I have to keep us safe.
