THE NEAR CONFESSIONThe wind at the top of the Weaver’s Spine was cold enough to bite through my cloak. Below us, the valley was a sea of grey mist, hiding the world we had left behind. The army was resting, the men huddled in small groups, their breath coming out in white puffs.

I sat on a flat rock, my legs aching from the climb. My hands were red and raw from gripping the cold stones, but I didn't mind the pain. It was better than the tightness in my chest.

Demetrius was standing a few feet ...