..which wasn’t present at all.

Was it?

He blinked. Nasra had just walked out of the tent, yet she was no longer here. The runes, less than scratchings in a dust coated stone, worn away as if by the scuff of many insect feet. The offerings, gone, or now just pretty colored dust.

It had truly happened? Not that he’d believed the shaman wholly. But he was moved, moved on? Walking out of the tent into a chill night, stars scattered like diamond dust in the sky, he went to survey his new home.

No, an old place. Small rocky cliffs and ledges, hollowed out holes and huge stone wheels that could be rolled back and forth.

He glanced into his tent, not a tent, a cave. A darkened cave with a tattered shroud cast upon the stone. A discarded crown of thorns at its feet.

He felt the scars that circled his head, the gash driven deep, now bloodless, in his side.

“My Lord! My King!” A young man running to him, thrilled at his presence.

Crushed, Gavin realised Nasra was right.

You couldn’t run away from who you were.