CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Black.
Blur.
Black…
Then blur again.
Faelyn blinks weakly, trying to clear the haze that clings to her vision like morning mist. Her brows twitch, confusion seeping through her mind like water through cracked stone.
It takes no more than a heartbeat for the memories to crash over her - each painful fragment stabbing into her chest, forcing her heart to stutter and skip.
Disbelief…
Disappointment…
Rage that burns like dragon fire in her veins.
Why?
Isn't she supposed to be… dead?
Her body feels disconnected, floating, yet her heart pounds with crushing dismay. The familiar silk hangings of the tent swim into focus, their crimson and gold threads catching lamplight like drops of blood and flame.
The sight makes her eyes squeeze shut, willing the merciful darkness to swallow her whole once more.
She had been so close to slipping away… she had been balanced on the knife's edge between worlds, and she had been ready for the darkness.
