Page 111 of The Mercenary's Hidden Heir
Traz sits across from me, Aria cradled asleep in his lap, Joren curled stubborn at his side like a little watchdog.
We don’t say much.
Don’t have to.
Every inch closer we get to the ground feels like something old breaking loose in my chest.
Not fear this time.
Something bigger.
Something almost too big to name.
Hope.
Real, solid, terrifying hope.
The view out the scratched port windows is green.
Endless green.
Thick forests stretch as far as the eye can see, broken up by ragged mountains and deep rivers carving across the land like silver veins.
No walls.
No patrols.
No city stink.
Just open sky and wild, roaring life.
I grip the seat tighter as the ship bumps through final descent.
Traz shifts slightly, his big hand resting light on my knee.
The warmth of it settles the nerves jumping wild under my skin.
"We’re here," he says, voice low and steady.
I nod.
Swallow hard.
"Yeah," I whisper. "We are."
Landing kicks up a storm of dirt and broken brush.
The whole ship groans when it touches down, but it holds.
When the ramp lowers, the smell hits me first.
Fresh.
Rich.
Alive.
Dirt and rain and something sharp and wild underneath it all.
