The reeds barely moved in the wind.
Lyria stayed low beside Mira. Mud soaked through her knees and crept into her boots. The river air smelled sharp and cold, like iron and wet leaves. Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her teeth.
Ronan was alive.
The oilcloth had slipped just enough for her to see his face clearly. His skin was pale beneath the mud. Blood had dried dark along one side of his temple, crusted into his hair. His wrists were bound so tight the rope cut deep grooves into his skin.
But his chest moved.
And his eyes were open. Not fully open, but alive.
The man with the scar at the corner of his mouth grunted as he dropped the oilcloth back over Ronan's chest.
"Still breathing," the second man said.
"Not for long if he keeps waking," Scar-Jaw answered. He nudged Ronan's side with the toe of his boot. "Boss said no marks. Just make sure he doesn't talk."
The other man spat into the reeds. "Could've just let him bleed out on the bridge."
