Away from the fire's glow, Damien sat with Blythe's trembling hands cradled in his own. They were cold—soft, fragile things, smaller than his, but carefully maintained. He could feel the faint residue of her ability in her skin, like silk pulled taut over hidden bruises. She restored herself often.
Her fingers twitched.
Even with his eyes shut, Damien could sense the panic rising in her pulse, in the way she leaned slightly forward, wordless but desperate. She was begging for hope without making a sound.
He'd told her not to speak, that it would interfere with the vision, that silence helped him see.
In truth, Damien needed the quiet to buy time.
Time to forge the perfect lie.
Time to swallow the pain screaming through his body.
The shackle was active again, had been for longer than ever before, and the agony was evolving. No longer fire beneath his skin, or just the weight of punishment.
Now it crawled deeper, a raw spreading poison.
It burns so bad…
