Leaving Home

Fire.

Fire, and blood.

The coppery stench flooded nostrils, a hard reminder of the last hour laid over by a smoky pall. Burnt flesh smelled all too similar to pig, and he retched into the mud.

He'd killed them all.

It hadn't been his fault, not really. The Excoriators would cast no blame at him; they wouldn't dare touch one of the chosen. One of what he'd become the moment his anger had bubbled into hot rage and that rage had kindled into magefire.

No, the Excoriators wouldn't dream of persecuting a Wildblood. If only he could be so forgiving.