The Inheritance

The Inheritance
A cry rose in Elansa’s breast, right to her throat, past the steel blade pressing. She let it die, unvoiced. To fling back her head and scream would have been to slice her own throat. She could not do it, for all she’d asked Kethrenan to let it happen. Neither could she whimper or plead. She was a princess. And so the outlaw took her away. Brand of the stonelands had the princess. A cry did sound for her, though, against the rage of battle, the war cries and the death screams of elves and goblins, long and loud and filled with terrible rage. It followed her, winding through the barren land, the sound of Kethrenan cursing.
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