Later that night, with the surviving wounded settled in the hollow of the grain store and a fire burning low, Kael found himself standing apart from the others, looking up at the stars.
Perrin had been young. Barely old enough to hold a blade. And now he was gone, buried somewhere in the dark of the ravine, unreachable and unburied.
The guilt should have consumed him. Part of him wanted it to—wanted to let the weight of failure crush him into something smaller, something that couldn't keep losing people he was supposed to protect.
But another part of him, the part that had survived the massacre and the berserk rage and everything else that had tried to break him, refused to give in.
He had nearly lost himself once. He refused to lose himself again.
"There's something I need to do," he murmured, speaking to no one in particular.
"Tomorrow," Lira's voice came from behind him. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning."
