Roxy watched their backs disappearing into the gray—Evie's steady stride, Ragnar's iron silhouette, Rox's lanky bounce—and shook her head. She'd read Evie wrong. Because Evie was gentle-faced and soft-spoken, Roxy thought she'd be the type to pause, to pity, to help those who wouldn't help them. But beneath that ethereal look was steel.
Roxy could be hotheaded—she owned that—but she was still a girl who cooed at strays and went quiet around stories of bad luck. Temper first, softness after. She glanced over her shoulder at the distant clash of metal, the panicked shouts. Michael's group.
The commotion felt far away—like the forest itself had placed glass between them. Even though they were only meters apart, it looked like Roxy was watching a scene on a screen, and Michael's party fought in a different instance entirely.
