It was a gradual, painful death: sudden and heartbreaking.
When Octavius opened his eyes again he stood only a few paces from three corpses that lay crumpled on the cold mountain ground.
The bodies were grey and already almost claimed by pale moss.
One of them still hung partially upright, an arm pinned to the rock by a bolt that had driven through flesh and bone and lodged itself deep in the stone behind, as though the mountain itself had decided to hold onto this one small piece of the tragedy.
Recognition arrived in a slow, sickening wave that rose from somewhere deep in his core.
These were their bodies.
And this was the night he and his two precious childhood friends had met a gruesome end because of foolishness and a complete lack of foresight.
"Tavi?"
The voice was quiet and careful.
It was the voice of someone who had always known exactly how to speak to him, even when he did not want to be spoken to.
Octavius turned away from the corpses.
