We put the lightly wounded men on the captured wagons and sent them home, while our militia men swept the battlefield and collected arms and armor. What else they found was their business. I assigned what was left of my estate guards to the bridge for the rest of the day. We were going to stay the night and see how many of the seriously wounded survive until morning. The unbloodied militia men that never experienced the trials of combat were all assigned as the night watch. We would bury our dead in the morning.Just before a spectacular sunset, I washed up in the river with a little help from the temple archer. Holly had encouraged her to attend me, and she was to report back to the medic, in the morning about my injuries. The night ended better than I had anticipated. The archer's name was Ginger and our love-making soothed away the cruel scenes of battle from my mind. We sprawled and twisted on the ground of my tent until we fell asleep exhausted.I woke up in the dark to find Ginger. She stood just over the precipice, at the top of a dizzying, ancient staircase, cut right into the side of the cliff.“Oh,” she flashed him a smirk, “... My hero.”The girl held out her hand. But looking down the narrow, twisting steps to the sea, Owen felt his stomach lurch.“Is it safe?”“No, dear boy,” she took his wrist, pulling him down, pulling him close, “It is not.”Her touch sent a fresh wave of craving through him, drowning out any lingering doubt. Her pale hand in his. The supple swell of her chest. The soft and sinful husk in her voice. It ruined him—enslaved him to her. He was over the edge now. There was no turning back. And all the madness, the unreality of it, faded out into the aether.He followed her, his heart stopping more than once as he stumbled on a cracked, uneven step. The waves frothed far below, like fangs. But the sway of her hips, of her bare, beckoning shoulders lured him on.Halfway down the stairs disappeared, swallowed into a low tunnel—a warm, wet cavern.
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