Rastaban was sure that he was dead. Whenever he even thought about trying to move, echoes of the firebrand at his throat from where Shanka had cut him shot through his body like hot sparks. But he was definitely dead. If he managed to open his eyes, he’d be greeted with the afterlife. He’d see Rami and his mother and the soldiers he’d fought with over the years. There would be food and drink, music and dancing.
Or there’d be an old man leaning on the shaft of a spear, peering at him.
“So good of you to join us.”
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