A tendril of wariness caresses Dawsyn’s neck. At first, she thinks it is the ominous quality of a place such as this, so quiet and empty. It automatically brings about a sense of threat. There are stocks, chains, a tree trunk long since cut and stripped and erected here, Mother knows what for. The awareness licks at her again, raising the hairs along her arms, and it is only then that she sees him. In the dark, Ryon sits at the base of the wooden post.
