“This might be the worst thing you’ve ever asked me to do.”

Richard’s voice is muffled both by his muttering and by the little bit of distance they still have to close. The trod of his step is sharper, steady and wet, deliberate as only the twice or thrice fallen can be while still making good time over icy gravel and icy rock and icy ice.

The arc of ichor he flicks off the end of his dagger crosses down over Loxley’s boots beside him, probably not entirely accidentally.