Page 35 of On Brutal Thrones

Talon's eyes remain fixed on the path ahead, his jaw tightens, but he doesn't answer. He says nothing. He only turns and starts walking again.

I exchange a glance with Fenric before calling after him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You asked if we smelled something.”

“I know.”

“So you obviously smell something.”

Talon slows slightly, his shoulders lifting. “Probably farther away than I thought.”

“What does it smell like?”

He hesitates.

That alone is enough to make unease curl through my stomach. Talon almost always has an answer, even if the answer is inappropriate, irritating, or designed specifically to annoy Thorian.

“I’m not sure.”

It’s such an obvious lie that none of us bothers challenging it.

We continue downhill, and the terrain grows rougher as we go. The trees thin out, becoming smaller and harder-looking, their trunks twisted by wind or poor soil. Thick roots push across the trail like knotted fingers. Normally, I might find them interesting, but today I keep watching the ground instead.

Every crack makes my stomach clench.

Every loose stone that shifts beneath my boot sends a spark of fear up my spine.

Once, somewhere in the distance, there’s a dull sound like earth settling, and I stop so abruptly Fenric jerks to a stop beside me.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

He listens.

Nothing comes again.

“Probably a branch.”

Probably.

I force myself onward.

Talon is farther ahead now, moving too quickly.

“Slow down,” Thorian tells him.

Talon does, but reluctantly, and when I catch up, I notice his face has changed. At first, I think it’s the heat. His cheeks are faintly flushed, which seems strange enough on its own considering he almost never looks overheated, but then I notice how often he swallows.

Once.

Again.

His fingers curl into fists, relax, then curl once more.

“Talon.”