A wave of panic overtook her, breaking against the blanketing calm. She needed her rage, had donned it like armor every morning to survive the loss of her brothers and father. Rage, so much hotter, so much lighter, than grief. Anger had kept her strong when they’d lost their mother. Not in the massacre, but afterward, when she’d fled to safety in the far reaches of her mind. Inis couldn’t lose her armor now. Not that, too. If she tried to remove it, it would come off with skin, muscle, bone. It was fused to her. She needed it.
