Rocks and miniature dirt slides raced the Avalons down the mountainside. They gave their horses their reins to pick the best path down, but it was still slow going. Michael rode in back of the procession, ignoring the looks his siblings threw over their shoulders. It wasn’t the purpling bruises disfiguring his handsome face that made them stare, but his silence.
He had accepted their return to the forest without protest. When they laid plans to hunt Brock and his raiders rather than continue the fruitless search for Atalanta, he’d only gazed into the fire. Only after his siblings had gawked at him, casting nervous glances at one another, did he speak.
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