He was older than her, though not by more than ten years or so. Red curls framed his rough, bearded face, and Ellia was reminded of stories of giants that her parents used to tell her when she was little. She pulled at his heavy cloak, but a fresh spill of blood convinced her to bundle him tighter.

“Help me get him inside,” she whispered to Marnon, but the old hostler just shook his head.

“And put him where, child? He's dying; if he doesn't expire by morning, he'll still be dead by sunset.”