A fine thread now connected Riftan and Maximilian after their wedding night. If he were to die in battle, that link would be severed. The years would slowly erase his face from her mind, leaving only the vague memory of the monster who had tormented her.
His expression grew bitter as he wiped the ale from his mouth with the back of his hand. Her disdain was clear in her refusal to relocate to Anatol. She may not even wish for him to return alive. A sharp pain, one he was accustomed to by now, twinged in his chest.
Hebaron was drinking in front of the fire, his brawny legs stretched out before him.
"Enough of this bleak talk," he said, cutting into the conversation. "Let us rest and be merry for tonight at least. Dragon slaying and reinforcements can be discussed on the move, can they not? Time is all we have."
"What are you proposing? That we indulge in drink?"