Further back, another figure emerged from the smoke, a silhouette of reluctance and horror. Ryven. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a fear Caldan had never seen in him before. Not even on the bloodiest battlefields. He looked at Caldan not as his prince, but as something unknown. Something dangerous. He followed, but he kept his distance, the space between them a chasm of unspoken condemnation.
Let him be afraid, Caldan thought. Fear was a sensible response.
They walked south.
The silence between them was a heavy, suffocating thing. For days, they did not speak of the fire. They did not speak of the dragon. They did not speak of Arin. Their words were clipped, practical things, stripped of all warmth, all history.
"We need water."
"There is a stream ahead."
"The dragon needs to feed."
"I will hunt."
