Her stomach twists and churns and lurches with a queasy rumble. She has a strong stomach, iron-clad, it had always been such a point of pride that she could practically eat anything, so what the hell has she been eating? Partly it must be the smell turning everything over inside her. The dead bodies. The rot. Have they all been poisoned? How long have they been here —

Homesickness presses down hard on her chest like a weighted anchor. Her memories of Rifthold are already starting to vanish, ebbing away and turning hazy, thin around the edges. A dream. A dream. She isn’t home, or even an amalgamation of her two homes. This isn’t it.

Astrid is clingy when she lets herself be; so she reaches out for his arm, the line of Cedric’s wrist, cold chilled fingers reaching for his warmth.

“Only what?”