[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]
“They won’t come from here,” Leinth said, her gaze still on the trees as Phelan slowly straightened from his crouch, limbs shaky as if he’d just run a marathon. There was a low-level hum in the air from the energy he’d pushed into the wards, his magic mingling and merging with Marin’s, strengthening the ravine-side barrier at the very least.
“How do you know?” he asked quietly.
A wry smile twitched the corner of Leinth’s mouth upward. “They never did do well with terrain like this. They’ll hit us at the wall.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than half,” she said. “Some of the Hunt should watch out here, but most of them and all of us need to be on the walls. Trust me in this, Phelan.”
“I do and that’s what worries me.” He scrubbed his hand roughly over his face and then flexed his fingers. He could sense the power lurking beneath his feet, ready and waiting to be called. It sent ice skittering up and down his spine and goosebumps racing up and down his limbs.
It had been that way since the day on the ice, when he’d reached too deep and touched something he’d never felt before.
If I called, it would answer. I know it would answer.
That knowledge wasn’t something that should have frightened him, but it did.
Phelan closed his eyes.
Leinth touched his arm. “Wanderer?”
“I’m fine,” he said softly. “I’m fine.”
“We should go,” she whispered.
He nodded. “I’m coming,” he said. “Go on.”
But she stood there, staring at him, waiting. Phelan sighed, smiling his trademark crooked smile.
“You’re not going without me,” he said.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not. Come on, Phelan. We have work to do.”
He exhaled a sigh. They always did.
“All right,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
