Cold, Haffa woke. Even in the warmth of a summer morning, he shivered. He did not open his eyes immediately – he could see the sun beams through his eyelids and the dark lines where trees were.

The lack of sight attuned his other senses and the sharp, stomach churning stink of blood pierced his nostrils like a million pins. He could even taste it. He pushed himself onto hands and knees, stretching his back like a cat but suddenly leaped onto his feet as he found himself looking into the wide, staring eyes of a dead man.

Caleb was dead. It wasn’t questionable and Haffa did not even try to wake him. Didn’t shake him or check his body for wounds. Instead, he staggered away from the field so littered with corpses. She had left him alive! He was astonished with the fact and staggered with shock as he even considered her not knowing that he had not perished.

Still cold, he stumbled to the woods. The king was in danger. Caleb was dead. And Haffa was the only one able to replace his master in the mission.