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spat, laughed, then sobbed once and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "By the gods... we’re alive."
A younger one crawled to his knees, eyes glassy. "Who—who did this? Who saved us?"
Azzy stood where he’d left them — tall, calm, the scythe sheathed at his side. He watched them gather, unhurried, like a man who’d performed a necessary cruelty and was already moving on. He didn’t look triumphant. He looked tired in a way that made people instinctively bow.
Iph ...
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