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“Where will your knight take Osric?”
Her face and clothes were filthy. One sleeve of her tunic hung by threads from her shoulder, where a large abrasion glowed red in the light of the fires that smoldered nearby. Several of Mathieu’s own stitches had torn free, but he seemed to have more than enough to hold the edges of the wound together. He would suffer no more sewing, at her hand or anyone else’s. “I hope Auvrai finds a cage to put him in.”
Aelia’s eyes darted around her. “Our people…they’re looking at Osric as if he were a fiend.”
“What would you call someone who tried to burn fifty men alive?”
“He did not intend to hurt anyone,” she countered.
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