Rain.
It was the only constant in a world that had dissolved into pain and mud. Cold, relentless rain that plastered his silver hair to his skull and mixed with the blood seeping from his chest. Each jolt as Ryven dragged him through the storm-soaked ruins was a fresh agony, a reminder of the blade.
Her blade.
Caldan's consciousness was a tattered flag whipped by the wind, fading in and out of blackness. In the moments of lucidity, the memory returned, sharp and clear. Arin, her face a mask of something he couldn't name—not hatred, not victory, but a terrifying, desperate resolve. The plan had been simple. A flesh wound. A convincing betrayal to fool Vaeren. A single strike to his side.
But there had been two.
