❝Shae Burrower, failed author and city girl, from Lavender Lane, at your service.❞
⎯⎯⎯
The story contained within these pages is not about me.
You all know of whom I write. If not by word of mouth or by the speculation of the Chileez Times, then by...
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No one had seen fit to inform me it would be hot.
The sun was baking down on us. Fields of grass surrounded us, open air above us. My arms were itching from the graze of grass stalks. My jacket was looped around my waist. The exposed skin was burning in the sun but it was too warm to cover.
The heat was almost as stifling as the silence.
Lennon T. James led us. He walked in front, fast and steady, and I made an effort to stay right behind him. My job was to write a narrative about him — not about passing out from heatstroke and dying because no one cared enough to revive me. In order to reach my objective, I had to stay close to the adventurer.
Note: Lennon T. James is immune to the sun.
From what I could see, the man wasn't out of breath or sweating. He seemed comfortable, was whistling, and would only turn around to make sure we were still in sight.
Behind me, Gino Morton was keeping up easily. He was a constant presence on my left side, would offer me encouragement, and then would turn around to reassure Mitch. She was severely out of breath.
Borys Nattaniel was behind her, hand on his sword. He, also, didn't seem to be having a hard time. But he'd shed as many layers as he could without showcasing skin, and he was a soldier. He could march, for Lady Fate's sake.
Ella Switkoskie was walking by herself. If Lennon T. James stopped whistling, one could hear her humming a tune. She was almost skipping. Her feet faltered every now and again and her whole body would tense when that happened, as if she was remembering something.
Finally, Wade Lyong was our straggler.
He was breathing so hard, there was no room for his commentary or snide remarks. His hair looked wet from where I stood, flopping over to the side as the sun melted the product from his hair. His skin was almost as red as mine.
We'd been walking for hours. Arriza was far behind us.
Confession: My shoulders were sore, my back was aching, and I was very, very hungry. My throat was drier than the desert north of Arriza.
I prayed for a breeze. I pleaded for intervention.
There was a rustle in the grass ahead.
My gaze sharpened and I carefully surveyed the area around us. Lennon T. James was whistling, walking backwards as he assessed our group's position. Gino Morton and Mitch had fallen a bit back.
There was another rustle and my neck pricked.
Something had their eyes on me.
I couldn't help it. My feet stumbled into a quicker pace, trying to catch up to the explorer that carried at least two weapons on his person. I never reached him.
I saw but a shadow before a weight crashed into me. The growl wrapped around my throat and clogged it. The ground knocked the breath out of my lungs — and the weight on my chest kept it from inflating again. Someone was screaming, someone was yelling, and I heard Mitch's "Shae!" clearly.
