A silent scream ripped through Caldan's mind.
The monks' mental assault was not a subtle probe; it was a brutal, hacking violation. He felt their greasy consciousnesses swarming through his memories, their psychic fingers tearing at the delicate tapestry of his life. They were like vultures fighting over a corpse, ripping at everything that made him him.
He saw flashes of his mother's cold, disappointed face.
He felt the phantom weight of his father's crown.
He heard the whisper of Arin's laugh by a campfire, a memory so precious it felt like they were ripping out one of his ribs.
They clawed at that memory, trying to follow its threads, trying to find the secrets he'd shared with her. He fought back, throwing up walls of fire and ice, memories of Vaelrix's fury, of the screams of dying men on forgotten battlefields. He used his pain as a shield, his rage as a sword.
