Pounding footsteps shook the forest and knocked fiery, autumn leaves from the trees. Gemma pressed against the nearest trunk, the bark’s ridges digging into her bare arms. We found the stone golem.
“Fiske, Korth, you ambush him from the other side.” Uncle Roan spoke just loud enough for her to hear.
“You’re hurting me, Wynn.”
Wynnstan let go of Gemma’s hand. “Sorry.” He glared at his stone fingers, wishing for the hundredth––perhaps thousandth––time that his hands could be soft and delicate, able to hold Gemma like she deserved to be held.
She rubbed her hands together. The creek’s low rumble filled the silence
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