The mountain air was crisp and cold as our small convoy began its journey away from Hawk's Pass. I gazed out the carriage window at the battlefield that was now eerily quiet. Just days ago, these plains had been soaked with blood and echoed with screams. Now, only the occasional flutter of banners in the wind broke the stillness.
"We should reach the southern valley by nightfall," Alaric said, his voice pulling me from my thoughts.
I turned to my husband, who was lying across the opposite seat, his body propped up with pillows. His face was still pale, the bandages around his torso visible beneath his partially open shirt. The royal physician had assured us his wounds would heal completely with time and rest, but seeing him so weakened still made my heart ache.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, reaching across to touch his hand.
"Like I've been run through with a sword," he replied with a wry smile. "Which, as it happens, I have."
