Caliban rested his chin on top of Slate’s head. We are likely going to die soon. It is wrong to feel this gloriously happy. He feared for Slate, of course. He feared for them all. And yet…and yet… I clearly do not believe that the gods will be so unkind as to separate us. He knew that was foolishness. The gods would sacrifice Their followers without a second thought to achieve Their ends. But Slate’s back was warm against his chest and her hair smelled like soap.
