The road fell away beneath them in a blur of dark earth and flying gravel.
They rode hard, faster than sense would advise, faster than comfort allowed—only easing when the bells of Ceadel thinned behind them, their voices swallowed by distance and night. Even then, no one spoke. Breath tore from lungs. Hooves struck in ragged rhythm. The wind carried the sharp, copper-sweet scent of blood.
Shin sagged in his saddle, kept upright by Bela on one side and Masa on the other. His breathing came shallow and uneven, each exhale a quiet, wet sound he did not have the strength to hide. Bela murmured to him under her breath—nonsense words, steady as a pulse—while Masa rode with his jaw clenched, one arm braced behind Shin's back as if he could will the man to stay upright through sheer force.
Frost Fire moved without being told.
