Cursed for three decades, Syrene Alpenstride has lived her life in an unearthly, inhuman form, in a tower where dark seems alive and stirring.
Jegvr, the Voiceless Pits are the dungeons where the world's deadliest criminals are confined, those whose...
It seemed to be swirling in her, flooding through her like a burning, poisoning storm.
Then the world resumed.
Someone was carrying her, their arm around her back—they were running from the snaking cracks behind.
Her hands were caked with blood and dust, her whole face was.
Over Vur's shoulder, Faolin caught the fortress behind them was no more than a mountain of rocks, servants and remaining soldiers near it were falling, being swallowed by the gaps.
Their screams were drowned by the obliteration in each inch of her.
I wanted to travel the world with you.
Silence roared in her again, struck her with a deadly bolt.
Aazem was dead.
She let darkness tug her deep.
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Faolin awoke in a dark cave, and felt the emptiness in the world. Something was missing, something very precious.
There was fire crackling somewhere deep in the cave, she heard the chatter and the sighs.
It slowly came then. The blinding burning in her arm, her leg.
Her eyes, her throat.
"Faolin." Even Levsenn's melodic voice was not enough to drive out the bellowing storm, to soothe the gaping wound in her chest.
Vur and Levsenn stood over her the next moment—pity on their faces. The latter's golden-brown hair was soaked, clothes too. The former had meat grease on his mouth, fingers.
"We stopped because Levsenn needed to dip in water," Vur explained, deep voice echoing in the cave. "Dawn is a few hours away—you should eat something before we resume the trek to Olkfield."
Levsenn said, "Masquerade Ball for the Feast of Melodies must have just started, we can make it till night—during the duel." She added, "With your mejest ..."
It was drained—severely bruised and utterly empty.
She didn't care.
Faolin shut her eyes and willed the darkness to never release her again.
