The turn came sharp.
Lindarion stepped around the lichen-crusted rock with his hand near his side. He didn't draw. Just kept his fingers loose and open, like he was ready to flick them if something moved wrong.
Ardan moved up beside him. Not behind. Left side, slightly back, head tilted like he was listening for a language trees might speak if they felt like being rude about it.
Then the view opened.
A small clearing. Circular. Ground packed down to ice and old mud. The kind that had been trampled by too many feet in too little time. The snow hadn't covered this part yet. That said enough.
In the middle sat a man.
'Again? Seriously?'
Not tied up. Not leaning like he'd fallen. Just sitting there. Legs stretched out, head forward, one arm resting on his lap like it had forgotten what to do.
Lindarion didn't speak. He blinked once. Then again, slower.
Ardan sniffed once, subtle.
"Still breathing?" he asked.
Lindarion tilted his head.
