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I crest the final ridge, which rises like the spine of some slumbering giant, revealing Thornwick spread below us in all its mountain-cradled glory. My companions’ horses pick their way carefully down the winding trail, their hooves finding purchase on stone worn smooth by centuries of travelers, while I walk alongside them with the steady stride that has carried me through three days of mountain paths.
Being too large to ride had initially felt like another reminder of how different I am, but the walking had given me time to think—perhaps too much time. The weight of recent events presses against my consciousness like a physical burden, each step a reminder of hands that had been stained with more than bandit blood. I find myself unconsciously flexing my fingers, remembering the sensation of crushing bone and the way Rogg’s face had dissolved under my fists like a potter’s clay in rain.
Still, over these three days on the mountain trail, my companions haven’t let me retreat into my own head for long. Every afternoon when the shadows lengthen, Thessarian has quietly adjusted her pace to walk within arm’s reach of my elbow, trading dry remarks about Lysander’s boots or pointing out hawk nests in the crags.
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