Nevara
“What do you mean Drake got hurt?”
The words came out sharper than I’d intended.
Across the table, Thoren blinked once.
“He got stabbed.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“A silver-tipped spear.”
I stared at him.
A silver-tipped spear.
A silver-tipped spear.
And somehow he’d delivered that information with the same level of concern someone might use to mention it was going to rain later.
“When exactly were you planning on telling me this?” I demanded.
His eyebrows pulled together.
“I just did.”
My eye twitched.
“Thoren.”
“What?”
“You spent ten minutes talking about preparations.”
“Actually the last ten minutes was spent on you hiding from me.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You know exactly what I meant. Drake got impaled and you opened with buses.”
“He didn’t get impaled.”
