Sylvia's dirt- and soot-covered face bore the streaks of dried tears, but her eyes remained sharp, unwavering. Her broken arm had mostly healed, as had the others' wounds, but the cost of that healing left her drained. Even so, exhaustion wasn't what kept her standing. It was grief, frustration, and rage.
She was furious that Damon had stayed behind to hold off a war troll while they retreated. The mere thought of it made her blood boil. But she had no choice but to trust him. He had told her to have faith. So she would.
Behind her, the only path forward was a narrow, rickety rope bridge swaying over a deep chasm. Below, there was nothing but darkness, an abyss stretching down the mountain's side. The wind howled through the ravine, rattling the fragile ropes. Crossing was risky—but cutting it off would trap Damon on the other side? That was unthinkable.
Sylvia clutched her bow tightly, standing firm. She would wait. No matter the odds.
