At the edge of his vision he saw a figure walking along the tower wall, knew without having to focus that it was Brogan. Closer and closer he inched, until the whole figure was outlined in shadow through the grass, now only twenty paces ahead. Close enough that I won’t miss, too far for a dash with a sword. He straightened and drew his bow, the wood creaking. The man in front of him froze, hearing the sound. He held his hands out, showing they were empty. He knows what a drawn bow sounds like. ‘Nice and slow, turn around now.’ The man turned. Elyon’s stones, it cannot be. Then Camlin was
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