"She's already dead," Sir Broll grunted. "Let's just bury her and be done with it."
Already dead. Jocelynn wanted to laugh, or sob, or scream that she was still here, still breathing, still feeling every broken piece of herself grind together. Nothing came out but a thin, wet rattle that the rain swallowed whole.
"And if someone finds her?" Sir Tommin asked. His voice shook, and Jocelynn couldn't tell if it was from the cold or something else.
"Then they'll find a dead witch in a hole," Sir Broll said, hawking and spitting into the mud. "Get her feet. I'm not carrying her alone."
