"Rowan…" Lyra breathed his name—the only hope she had left of escaping. She said it so softly it was barely a whisper, yet Dante caught it.
"You should forget about him… he's dead by now," he scoffed, his voice dripping with derision.
Lyra ignored him, taking his words as nothing more than an attempt to hurt her. She knew Rowan well. Taking him down wouldn't be easy, and she had no doubts about that.
It took more than an hour before the village appeared ahead of them. Small houses lined the road. Their walls were not cemented but formed from exposed brickwork, laid by hand in uneven squares.
Some homes were modest, others larger. Every window and door was wooden, adorned with careful hand-carved detail.
They crowded the doorways and windows, while others gathered along the roadside just to watch the jeeps rumble down the narrow lane.
Their skin ranged through warm shades of brown, their hair black and curly, and many bore striking yellow eyes.
