What followed was a nightmare with no ending in sight.
Athanor never got the chance to close a single one of his wounds, never got a breath to tend to himself, because a whole hunting party was baying after his family.
So he ran instead.
Bleeding, shielding his wife and daughter with his own ruined body, exhausted past the point men were built to endure, killing everything that got close enough to try for them.
And it was the same for Lysia. She ran hard after that brutal match with their daughter crushed to her chest, one arm locked tight around the small body while the other shoved low branches and broken walls out of their path.
Her own injuries screamed with every stride she took, and she never once loosened her hold. Little Athanasia's face stayed buried in the crook of her mother's neck, too frightened even to manage a cry.
They moved through the dark like a pair of wounded animals.
