Vencian pushed an elbow into the packed earth and tried to rise.
His legs shook at once, cloth pulling tight across his thighs, and the effort sent a dull throb through his knees and lower back. The shelter sagged when he shifted, branches scraping together above him. Dried blood cracked at his sleeve where it had soaked through earlier, stiff enough to bite at the skin when he bent his arm.
He drew a breath, held it, and tried again.
The world tipped. His foot slid on leaf litter, and the strength he expected failed to arrive. He dropped back onto his hip with a quiet sound, jaw tight, palms flat against the ground to keep from falling fully over.
So much for leaving quickly.
Seris had chosen the shelter well. Low, buried, invisible unless someone knew where to look. That kind of hiding worked because it assumed time would behave. Vencian had learned to treat time as conditional.
