"Wait," he blurted. "Aren't you—"
Erich elbowed him in the face.
"No," he said. "I'm Milo."
Within a few minutes, the clearing went quiet except for groans.
One bandit crawled away on hands and knees, clutching his side, muttering something about going straight and opening a bakery.
Lyan bent and picked up a scrap of stiff parchment from beside the overturned cart. It was a crude map—crossed lines, little circles, and notes like "good trees" and "fat traders." One circle sat near a charcoal scribble that looked like a mountain.
"Interesting," Lyan murmured.
Erich wiped a streak of dust from his cheek.
"I feel slightly better now," he said.
"Violence as therapy," Lyan said. "Very healthy, Your Highness."
Erich squinted at him.
"Don't call me that when my hair looks like this," he said.
A wind stirred the trees. Somewhere far ahead, beyond the low hills, the faint outline of a mountain range clawed at the sky.
Lyan folded the bandit map and tucked it into his belt.
