“We’re approaching. Get ready.” “Guess we should have worked on rolling dismounts earlier in the year,” I joke, gripping the pommel of my saddle tight as Tairn banks, my weight shifting right with him. My body is going to punish me for the hours in the saddle, but I wouldn’t trade the feel of the summer wind against my face for anything. “A rolling dismount would tear you limb from limb on impact,” he retorts. “You don’t know that,” Andarna counters with what seems to be her new default form of conversation—telling Tairn he’s wrong. A growl rumbles through Tairn’s chest, vibrating the saddle
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