Zarius snapped back to the present with a sharp gasp, the taste of copper lingering on his tongue. For a heartbeat, his eyes were still filled with the image of the Capital's training grounds, gold-drenched, humming with the laughter of a boy who no longer existed. It was a hell of a thing, waking up. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and bruising, trying to shake the memory of a dead friendship out of his head.
He lay there, flat on his back, eyes boring into the dark, peaked canvas of the tent. He was irritated. No, he was beyond that, he was irrationally, teeth-grindingly livid. Why now? Why did his subconscious decide to drag up Yerel's face in the middle of a godforsaken place?
