A year had passed since the massacre of Varnathian.
Zekar stood on the ridge, looking down at the valley through a veil of falling snow. The world had changed. The soft, vibrant greens of Varnathian had been replaced by a landscape of charred skeletons and grey ash that refused to wash away. He had grown taller; the lanky frame of a boy had turned into the hard, corded muscle of a man who lived on salted meat and adrenaline. His face had lost its roundness. His jawline was now sharp, and his eyes no longer held the playful warmth Emery had once loved. They were just two gold embers in a mask of soot.
He began his descent toward the Gem Stream. His movements were silent, a graceful fluidity that came from a year of hunting men rather than deer. He stayed in the shadows of the blackened cedars, his hand always near the hilt of the curved hunting knife at his belt.
When he reached the bank, he stopped.
