The dirt road wound like a spine through the valley, flanked by hills thick with trees that whispered with dusk. The air reeked faintly of old smoke and wet earth. Yara dragged her feet along the trail, each step a silent curse. Mud caked the hem of her torn tunic, her trousers were stiff with dried blood and gods-knew-what else, and her boots—once supple leather—had cracked in two places. Her curls stuck to her face, damp with sweat and streaked with grime. She was hungry. Filthy. Bone-deep tired.
And she was alive.
The village appeared like a ghost in the late afternoon haze, nestled between worn stone and wild ivy. Smoke puffed lazily from thatched chimneys, and the faint sounds of bartering drifted toward her. She lowered her hood. Her back ached as she dragged her feet through the path.
She needed a bath. Food. News.
Yara barely noticed the man until her shoulder clipped his, hard.
"Watch where—" he began.
"Sorry," she muttered, dropping her eyes and brushing past him.
