Levan could not stay still. The forest rushed past him in streaks of green and shadow, the thundering hooves of his horse beating a merciless rhythm into the earth. He did not slow, not even when the branches clawed at his cloak or the wind stung his eyes raw.
He was going northwards, always northwards, toward the village that had clung to his thoughts all night like a whispered promise. It was uncanny how many times he had gone through this path, if only to chase the truth that had clawed at him ever since the world crumbled before his eyes.
Hope had stirred in him then, fragile and dangerous. Because word had reached him that one of The Blithe's victims — a woman thought lost for nearly five years — had opened her eyes at last.
She had once been a close companion to his mother, close enough to know the truths buried beneath silence and smoke. And for one breathless night, the thought of her survival had burned like a beacon.
