A wail drew all their eyes to Vesli, who was stood atop a dead Raven-Feeder, a pile of bloody teeth between her cupped palms, trying to force them into the pouch at her belt. She froze, as if realising that all in the glade were staring at her, and looked up. “What’s wrong?” Orka asked the tennúr. “Too many teeth for my pouch,” she said, shoulders slumping. “Vesli going to need a bigger bag.”
VESLI PLEASE
