His stomach boiled, and pain lanced through his hip. A cry broke through his misery. A child, small and pathetic, also hurt. The heir wailed in Einin’s arms. Tyrus craned his head. The battle meant nothing if the heir was hurt. “What is wrong?” “I’m not making any milk.” “Can you?” “The empress said I could if I tried to feed her. It isn’t working.” “Do you have regular milk?” “No.” Einin cradled Marah again, and Tyrus realized he knew nothing about nursing. He could not say if she held the baby correctly, but little Marah was not happy. The cries grew louder as Marah became more frustrated until she cried nonstop. Her voice—pained, dry, and squeaky—left him powerless. How often did a baby eat, and where would they find milk in a forest? Ishma’s daughter starved, which meant he had killed his own men for nothing.
