Rowan headed toward the stream that wove through the rear of the compound, planning to clean himself off far away from any curious or disdainful eyes that might fall on him if he took care of his injuries in the communal bathhouse. He knew an overgrown trail at the edge of the woods that no one used, and he pinched his bleeding nose as he made his way through the trees, stumbling over roots and rocks as he went.
He'd briefly considered asking Loma for help, but quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't want her to see him like this after a meeting with her father.
He thought he might hate Ciprian.
As Rowan rounded a large oak to turn toward the stream, a muffled cry drifted through the trees. It sounded like a man's voice, and it fell midway between an objection and a wordless call of distress. He stopped walking and listened to the quiet of the woods.
