They hadn’t made it further than the edge of the Spine before the silence of the birds wrote their doom on every tree branch, on every stray cloud.
What had begun as a favor between friends began to weigh down on Faolin’s shoulders. His mail suddenly constricted around his breath, and his ears stung to their tips.
That was the sort of noise that Urgals made -- a low grumbling like wild animals packed too tightly in a cage. He could see their shadows in the distance.
The three of them -- himself, Arya, and Glenwing -- had carefully chosen this path knowing that Galbatorix’s own soldiers, at least the humans,
wouldn’t pursue them into territory that even the craziest of cartographers refused to coherently map.
The Spine was supposed to be the one range of mountains filled with every set of backwoods hamlet,
every sort of human scum of the earth that Emperor Galbatorix had ever promised to fight for in ages past.
This was their roundabout path to shake pursuit; their plan was perfected, charted, and re-charted to write in new contingencies. Faolin was one of the few elves who cared about such words.
Immortality made it hard to consider one point in time as immediate, and certainly not immediate moments introspectively.
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