When Rastaban’s army was almost to their village in the valley, he called a halt. They’d taken inventory a few days ago, checked to see who’d died and who’d lost what in the scramble. Rastaban closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turned to face his men. He wasn’t sure how he would explain to the women that they’d lost a hundred of the outer rank and returned home without a single spoil to show for it.
And then he felt a tingling down his spine.
He spun, raised his spear, and poised to throw.
Golden eyes met his.
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