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    Summary

    “You shouldn’t be here.” Iorveth doesn’t turn around from where he’s fletching some new arrows. They’ve recovered a good few tips during their last raid, enough to sharpen them again and make new arrows. Something shifts next to him as he is cutting the quills, dipping the ends in dye to mark them as his.

    “Why not?” the ghost asks. Blood is dripping from its fingertips, falling over the fresh grass, over Iorveth’s arrows. He doesn’t move to wipe it away, knowing it will disappear as soon as the spectre does.
    *

    Iorveth is haunted by Ciaran's spirit.

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