Promises

Concordia, Eleven Hundred Years Before

Thaelen lay for a long moment with his eyes closed evaluating himself. He felt weak, drained of energy but awake and alert. The bloated tightness of his stomach had eased which was a good sign that his body had adjusted and made use of the blood that he had consumed. From the stuffy warmth of the tent and the amount of noise outside the canvas, he knew that it was at least late morning.

He was alone within the tent, although he could hear the steady snick-snick of a blade passing over a whetstone from the entrance of the tent and knew that someone guarded over his sleep whilst they tended to their weapons.

His skin felt greasy and sticky with old sweat, and he could smell the sharpness of it on his skin and clothing. If he achieved nothing else that day, he decided, he would go to the water and bathe. He opened his eyes and waited for the haloes to clear before sitting up slowly, testing to see if the world dipped and swayed or stayed steady.

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