A sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood pierced through the cedar fragrance of Cold-Spring Grotto.
Inside his silk hammock, Kaelen Vance’s eyes snapped wide open.
The lazy drowsiness that usually draped his mind vanished in a single microsecond.
For two months, he had ignored the muffled sounds of siege warfare.
He had slept through war-horns echoing down the valley, marching boots crushing gravel, catapult stones smashing outer ramparts, and the distant ringing of acoustic bells. He had filtered out the frantic shouting of siege generals and the thunder of cavalry charges.
Blood was completely different.
The scent of a companion’s life essence burning into ash crossed his Zero-Hesitation Bottom Line.
Kaelen threw off his down quilt, swung his legs over the edge of the hammock, and stepped onto the cool floorboards in his wool socks. He pulled his thick flannel bathrobe tight around his chest, tying the sash with a sharp, decisive knot.
