By the time Soren managed to pull himself together from the relief of Chronovore being cut from him, the world was already moving without him.
Rough hands shoved him forward.
The way they did it made his already arching body hurt even more.
But apparently no one cared that his body was mostly filled with bandages.
The back of a horse-drawn carriage yawned open like a waiting mouth.
He stumbled inside, collapsing onto the bench opposite two other prisoners.
These ones, they looked… seasoned.
One was broad-shouldered and scarred, his face dominated by a crude tattoo of a tiger—its jaws stretched wide across his cheek and temple, one eye inked directly over his own.
The second prisoner was smaller and wiry, with sharp features and darting eyes, hunched in on himself like something that had learned early how to survive by being overlooked.
The carriage began, lurching forward.
The smaller man stared at Soren openly, brow furrowing. His accent was rough and provincial.
