Efnysien?
The strange name tugs at my psyche, somehow familiar though I’m certain I’ve never heard it before. Is he the one to whom Scythe referred earlier? The mysterious “he” who will not stop until we are captured?
Scythe grunts a confirmation.
“This far north?” Jac’s mouth gapes. “What in the skies are they doing all the way up here?”
Scythe again says nothing, but his gaze seems to sharpen on me. In the dark, his eyes glow like embers.
“Her?”
If I had any real concept of what they’re talking about, I might take offense at the sheer disbelief saturating Jac’s tone. As it is, I can only stare back at Scythe, trapped by his gaze of dark fire. Questions race through my mind, unchecked.
Me?
Why would anyone be looking for me?
I’m no one.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Scythe tells his companion.
Of course. He’d never discuss anything meaningful in front of a paltry prisoner. I nearly roll my eyes at the predictability of it all. Instead, I force my gaze to break from his and dismount with a thud that jars my bones. The mountain earth is frozen solid. Even here in the shelter of the cave, each breath fogs the air in front of my face.
When I turn to face the men, both are watching me carefully—Scythe with his typical unreadable mask, Jac with a broad grin of welcome so unexpected, it makes me stagger back a step. My shoulder blades slam into Onyx, who whinnies softly in response.
The newcomer watches my retreat, brows high on his handsome face. He wears simple but well-made mountain garb designed to blend in with the snow—thick gray fabric with a leather vest layered over the top and sturdy boots to the knee. A wolf pelt lines his cloak collar. No banners or insignias anywhere to declare his loyalties, no easily identifiable sovereign colors on display. Whoever he is, whatever business he concerns himself with, he conducts in stealth.
There are dual sheaths strapped to his back—one holding a sword, the other a double-headed battle-axe with an ornate wooden handle and wickedly sharp blades. He has a crop of dark blond hair that falls nearly to his shoulders and a rangy, athletic form that makes him seem more youthful than his twenty-odd years. His ears are rounded—human, not halfling.
“You expect me to believe,” he says, head tilting sideways as he examines me in turn, a small smile still playing at his lips, “this half-starved slip of a thing is the answer to all our prayers?”
More questions spring to life, crowding my already cluttered mind.
Me?
An answer to prayers?
Absurd.
“Jac,” Scythe warns.
“Perhaps you’ve been praying to the wrong gods, if I’m the answer you’ve received.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I assure you, I’m not…whoever it is you think I am.”
“No?” Jac asks, smile widening farther.
I nod.
“Who are you, then?”
“No one of importance,” I say instantly. “Just an ordinary girl from an ordinary househo—”
“She bears a Remnant mark.” Scythe’s blunt comment cuts through the cave like…well, like a scythe.
My mouth snaps shut.
Remnant?
I’ve never heard the term before. But clearly Jac has—his head swivels to examine his friend, all playfulness extinguished. “Are you certain?”