Vencian opened his eyes to the color of rust.
The ground around him was uneven and cracked, like wreckage left after some long storm. A faint wind scraped dust across the surface. The air carried no scent, no sound except his own breath.
He pushed himself up slowly. His arms felt heavy, his head hollow.
Beside him lay the sword the village man had given him, the same blade meant for the sacrifice. Its dull metal caught the strange red of the sky.
Another dream?
He blinked, expecting the scene to fade as his mind cleared. The place felt too unreal. The sky looked painted rather than lit. He had dreamed of stranger places before.
Then he saw them.
Roselys lay a few steps away. The little girl was curled beside her, her face, and clothes still marked with dried red powder. Both were breathing.
