The errant thought was enough to invoke another shiver. Carried on the light breeze wafting across the arena field was the unmistakable odor of burned flesh. She clamped her mouth shut, wrinkling her nose in protest of the fetid stench assailing her nostrils. The amphitheater’s design all but assured the smell would persist here until the field was cleaned of the carbonized remains. As she pondered this, Georgiou trembled again and gripped herself tighter, and the more she did that, the angrier she became. Bastards.
