I should have been grateful that the knight was leading.
Really, I should have. But he had the kind of forward momentum usually reserved for siege weapons or drunken uncles at weddings, the sort of stride that said, "If you stand in my way, you'll either be reduced to a fine paste or you'll rethink all of your life choices."
The five of us moved through the ruined arteries of the city, our boots slapping wet cobblestone, our lungs still rattling from the recent attempt at collective drowning.
Rodrick walked beside me, his jaw tight, eyes darting in every shadow. Dunny, bless his heart, trailed behind us, squeaking softly every time a rat scuttled by, which in this city meant he was squeaking roughly every four seconds or so.
The city surrounding us was quieter now. Not silent—never silent—but quieter, as though even the screaming and fighting had chosen to pace themselves before the storm that loomed.
