Dayraven collapsed to his knees, dropping Sweothol in the mud and clutching his neck while his life flowed between his fingers. He could not speak. Salty blood filled his mouth, and his tongue was thick and clumsy. Brond blurred and swam, merging into the vast shadows of the elf-shard. The battle faded. I’m sorry, Grandmother. Sorry I couldn’t help you, Imharr. Father. Ebba. Oh gods, it’s coming.
