The morning air bit at Xavier's face as he checked Smoke's tack for the third time. Six days since the Thornbeast attack, and his reputation had taken on a life of its own. Whispered conversations followed him through camp each morning—fragments about the Thornslayer, the man who moved with golden lightning.
"You're preening again," Naomi observed, leading Ember past him toward the wagon train.
"I'm being a role model," Xavier replied, though he caught himself standing straighter when two guards nodded respectfully in his direction. "There's a difference."
"Right. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with how Marta keeps staring at you like you're some legendary hero come to life."
Xavier glanced toward the young woman in question—one of the survivors who'd taken to lingering near their section of the caravan.
"Green is not your color," he said.
