The first thought that passed through Caliste's head when he woke up was simple.
I'm still alive?
Barely. His body felt like it had been borrowed, dragged through war, and returned a decade older. Every inch ached. There was a numb spot on his left shoulder, and his tongue still tasted like burnt dirt and regret.
The second thought was far worse.
He heard whistling.
A cheerful, off-tune, completely deranged sort of melody—somewhere between a marching song and tavern shanty, sung by a man who hadn't seen sanity in decades.
Daimon.
"Good morning, sunshine!" The old barbarian's voice exploded over the hillside. "You awake, or do I need to bring Kevin and the torch again?"
Caliste groaned into the grass. "No torch, please."
"Great. You've got thirty seconds to eat this mystery stew before we start the real training."
He didn't have time to argue. A bowl was dropped next to him. Thick, bubbling brown mush steamed within, flecked with green lumps.
"What is this?"
