She lay still, watching the churning clouds above. Waiting for him to finish the words she couldn’t hear, waiting for a blow she was fairly certain she wouldn’t feel. “Get up,” he said suddenly, and the world was bright and wide as he stood. “Get up.” Get up. Chaol had said that to her once, when pain and fear and grief had shoved her over an edge. But the edge she’d gone over the night Nehemia had died, the night she’d gutted Archer, the day she’d told Chaol the horrible truth … Chaol had helped shove her over that edge. She was still on the fall down. There was no getting up, because there
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