Book 12: Logan

Aviva

“What’s your name?” I ask in the old tongue as I lead the boy through one of the pastures, shoving chest-height strands of wheat to the side to give us a path. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. I don’t press him for information, either. The fact that he’s following me is enough. 

“Logan,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and cool like the breeze coming off the rolling hills in the distance. 

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“I thought so.” I look at him over my shoulder, smiling, but he doesn’t return the gesture. Dark circles line his eyes, and he’s incredibly thin, even for a boy his age, who all seem to be gangly and lanky. His dark, nearly black hair is pin straight and sticks up at all angles, rustling in the breeze, and he’s pale with freckles across the bridge of his nose. 

A scar wraps from his left temple, over his nose, and across his right cheek. It’s… horrific, honestly. Wide and gnarled.