"The wind is coming from the north, Seluna," Sol said, his voice light and conversational, as if they were old friends, and were discussing the afternoon weather over a bowl of stew. "You're downwind. It can smell your fear. It's like a perfume to them. It's distracting you from your footing."
"And your center of gravity is too high; you're leaning too heavily on your left. If it kicks again, you're going to snap that ankle."
Seluna's face, already flushed from the fight, turned a deep, incandescent red. The shock was being rapidly overtaken by a soaring, white-hot fury. The fact that he was just standing there, critiquing her form while she was bleeding and seconds away from being dissecting, was more painful than the Strider's claws.
"Sol!" she hissed, her voice a jagged edge of rage. "Are you just going to stand there? Help me!"
