Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.” Rowan stooped, grunting at the pain in his thigh, and hauled Gavriel over his good shoulder. And then he climbed. Up the siege ladder still anchored beside the western gate. Onto the walls. Each step heavier than the last. Each step a memory of his friend, an image of the kingdoms they had seen, the enemies they had fought, the quiet moments that no song would ever mention. Yet the songs would mention this—that the Lion fell before the western gate of Orynth, defending the city
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