He led her to a massive, felled oak tree that looked like the skeletal remains of a giant. Its trunk was wide and flat, bleached gray by the sun, providing a perfect, natural canvas. He lifted her onto the wood, his hands lingering on her waist for a second to ensure she was steady.
"Carve it out, Salviana," he urged softly, stepping back to stand as a literal wall between her and the darkening woods. "Give the mind's eye room to breathe. I'll hold the line."
Salviana didn't hear the clink of the knights' armor or the restless shifting of the horses. She dropped to her knees on the trunk, the gold pin clutched in her hand like a dagger. The wood was her canvas, and the urgency in her soul was her ink.
She began to scratch.
