Dawn was rising grey in the eastern sky. Yorva stood on watch atop a crumbled wall, cloak wrapped tightly around to keep out the sharp wind blowing across the dead fields. Her thoughts were on a wander, beyond the river, among the woods, through the gates into the midst of home. While Goatbeard lay resting in the tent below she allowed the resolute callous mask to fall and shadows of sorrow, terror and guilt flushed her eyes, made her tremble. She gripped hard the javelin used as she stood motionless as a prop to rest her weight on.
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