A noise outside the hut startled him, but he didn’t go back to the furs. He scooped up his mother’s fallen knife and clutched it with both hands, stared at the doorway, waiting. He edged back into the shadows, listening to the guttural voices of the enemy soldiers. A shadow fell across the doorway, and Rastaban felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. He clutched the knife so tight his knuckles were white, and when the soldier stepped into the room, he lunged.
The soldier cried out and dodged, caught Rastaban by the collar. And then he smiled.
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