He’d left the safety of Cahlish. For her. He’d climbed the mountain. For her. He’d snuck through Irrín and crossed the river. For her. And now he was being chased across the dead fields of Sanasroth by a horde of feeders. He must have been tired and ready to give up, but he was still coming. For her. And I was not about to let that little fox die.
