HECTOR BAYES

The feeling of the dead man’s body as I writhed on top of him had not left my chest as we rode on horseback, into the gates of the mountain city.

“Are you alright?” The green-eyed woman who had been watching me since we passed through the gates whispered, clumps of mud and twigs sticking out of her hair from where she’d brushed her face against mine.

The porcelain of her high cheekbones was ashen with dust and grime, and the sight of the salt streak of tears dried and flaky sent a pang through my frame.

I allowed myself a shallow breath, We had come a long...