Rosamund
Nevan walked into the village without waiting for me to respond and without looking back, his boots crunching softly on the grey earth as the silence swallowed him whole.
I sat on the horse, trying to distract myself by how empty and mildly fearful this place was. But every time my mind wandered off to a distant memory from the past or the recent past, the cold would jolt me back to reality.
It was creeping in slowly, settling over my skin like a damp cloth pressed against bare flesh. One moment, the evening air was warm and still, and the next, my arms were prickling with gooseflesh, the fine hairs standing on end as though a winter draught had swept through the square.
