Tristan knew Dylan was tired. He could hear it in her heavy tread, her laboured breathing; he could feel it in her lagging arm, tugging back on him with every stride. He knew it, and he felt bad, but if they were caught on this hill when the shadows descended, the wraiths would offer no quarter.

Dylan almost seemed to have lost her fear of them -- or perhaps it was just that she thought he could protect her from their hunger -- but she was a fool to flirt with danger. She couldn't sense it, he realised, but the wraiths were furious. Not only had they failed to take her on the way across the wasteland, but she'd come back. She'd come back and she'd beaten them. Alone. Without a ferryman to stand between her and their grappling claws.

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