The lull had lasted perhaps an hour. Long enough for the wounded to be tended, for the dead to be counted, for the living to catch their breath and prepare for what was coming. I sat on a rock near the edge of the line, Runa beside me, my hands still faintly glowing with the last remnants of healing light. The ember pulsed weakly in my chest, dimmed by the hours of battle and the constant expenditure of power.
Kaelen was somewhere behind me, conferring with Torvin, planning for the next assault. I did not need to see him to know he was there. His presence was a warmth at my back, a certainty that anchored me.
The messenger came on a horse that was more foam than flesh, its flanks heaving, its eyes wild with exhaustion and fear. The rider was young—barely more than a boy—his face pale beneath a mask of frost and blood, his hands gripping the reins so tightly his knuckles were white.
