He laid on his back, a hollowed-out shell of what he once was, staring up at the vault of the night sky. He was tired in a way that sleep couldn't reach, hungry enough that his stomach had stopped growling and started to ache with a cold, rhythmic pulse, and thirsty enough that his tongue felt like a piece of dry leather in his mouth.
He tried to force his mind into a void. He tried not to think of anything at all.
How long has it been? A week? A week and a few days since the world ended on the march?
No. Don't think about it.
Don't think about Cleo's face as the steel found him, a face you couldn't see. Don't think about Noros and the way his bodie rattled against the dirt. Don't think of your father, sitting in his high hall, waiting for a son that will never sail home.
