The snow was melting. Azzir had heard it all last night, tik, tik, tikking as it dropped from the boughs of the fir trees onto the tents and metal roofs of the fort. He imagined little rivulets of snowmelt flowing under the dying snow, like the blood through his legs. Sluggish. Unresponsive. Cold and unfeeling.
“You shouldn’t have pushed it, you know,” said Gaolyf. “I told you once, I told you a thousand times, you keep walking on them legs, you’re going to lose them. Well now, you have, and now you’re going home.” Continue reading “War Front, Book Five”