“Children.” Talon says it with the amount of shock we feel. Because, of all people, children? In a war? There are a dozen of them, maybe more, scattered between the trees and blocking our path forward. Some look barely old enough to attend school. The oldest can’t be more than fourteen. They’re standing in a crooked line across our path with pale faces and gleaming hands. No, not gleaming hands. Weapons cluthed in their tiny palms. The handles are wooden, but there’s no mistaking the sharp blade at the end Silver. “No,” I whisper. One of the girls steps forward. She’s small, with two dark braids and a face that might have been sweet if it weren’t twisted with hatred. “Olivia,” she squeaks. Yes, squeaks, cause she’s that young. Alex steps forward, eyes bulging, “Celia. Nester sent you?” Celia turns toward her, her hatred sharpening. “Alex. Or should I say, traitor?” Alex flinches, and Cecilia takes a step closer. Her blade is the longest of all the children
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