“You’ll get more for her if she’s breathing,” said a voice from the dark. It was steady, drawling, with the kind of calm that belied a level of command. “And more yet if she’s not purple with bruises.”
“Then stop grabbing her like that,” a woman muttered, trudging through the snow as she glared at the men dragging Lyra along with vice-like grips on her arms.
The man at Lyra’s side loosened his hold fractionally. It wasn’t mercy, just pragmatism. He wanted his pay like everyone else. “Fine. Walk, little rabbit.”
They marched, giving her no choice.
The climb back toward the fortress burned her lungs, the frigid air making the simple act of drawing breath painful. Her ribs weren’t helping the matter. The world narrowed to the crunch of boots, the jerk of her arm to push her forward, exha
