Silence reigned with the smell of blood, ash, and pine mixing on the air.
Viktor hurried to Fjalda's side, letting out a powerful sigh as she opened her eyes slowly, groaning. "You're bleeding," Fjalda said when he turned back toward her. "It's nothing," he shrugged. "What about you? You're all bruises."
"Stop worrying about me and check on the others," she snapped, though a smile crept over her face before she turned and hurried to Eliza, smoothing back her hair and whispering, while Viktor surveyed the scene, his eyes tightening as they fell upon three more prone forms and one, still alive but merely rolling back and forth from time to time. They came here and killed anyone who got in their way. Who would do that? Nobody's at war with Azraellan, let alone Silverwood. Boots clattered across the deck behind him.
Who cares about Silverwood at all? Who cares about us?
"Who were those people? And why would they do this? We haven't done anything to anyone." She's about to break down. Fjalda of all people. He felt cold overtake him, the kind of cold that only came with the deep of winter and cut you to the bone, though it was only mid-autumn. We are who they want. But I don't know why.
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