Looming over Isabog where she lay on the ground, Surzl glowered at her crumpled form. Stupid warlock. Ruznabiyug’s fury, she’d really done it this time.
The wind was picking up. It wasn’t a constant blowing, but sudden gusts that shoved one aside or threw the dry soil about. Gaspard shielded his eyes. Already his ears and the bottom of his pockets carried a fine layer of dirt.
A cool, humid breeze climbs up the ridge from the sea below making Rayne’s white gown flutter. With her hand extended to me, she looks like an angel ready to receive me in paradise. “Take my hand, Abe. Take me. Be my consort.”