The night had teeth.
It gnawed at Ryon's flesh, sank cold fangs into the marrow of his bones, and left him shivering even beneath the thick woolen cloak Garron had thrown across his shoulders. He sat hunched near the dying fire, the embers breathing out a weak glow, little more than fading hearts scattered across blackened wood. His hands trembled as he held them near the light, but the heat never reached him.
Every cough tore through him like a blade. He spat red into the dirt and felt the eyes on him—dozens, hundreds, watching from the shadows. His soldiers huddled in their small circles, wrapped in cloaks, whispering over scraps of bread, clenching fingers around the last dribbles of dried meat.
The Hollow Pass was behind them, but its ghost had followed.
