She was speaking in a strange, fluttering language unlike one Ciaran had ever - no, he knew that language; he usually heard it being shouted across battle lines. She spoke the language of the enemy. Ciaran prowled closer to the cover of the trees. Before he was within arm’s reach, Brenna reacted, twisted and drew her sword, ready to finish him. Then she saw him, and her expression settled into something grim, dangerous. She sheathed her sword, turned back to the bowl and resumed speaking.
The man whose face shimmered on the surface of the water looked equally grim and dangerous.
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