Ana trembled, not from the cold but from the impossible calm of a single child. The storm punched the hall into a rolling blur — wind gnawing at banners, dust spinning like gray snow — yet at its eye Auren sat grinning, a small comet of joy in the middle of ruin.
His purple flame from the left eye circled his head like a halo-turned-ring. It made him look both angel and devil at once: soft light that promised heaven, and a bruise of color that promised pain. His laughter curled through the air, slipping between screams and breaking the rhythm of the battle. It was too bright, too free, and it made the stones shiver.
Ana stood frozen. The question of what was happening lodged in her throat like ice. Goosebumps rose across her beautiful attire; the embroidery of her robe seemed suddenly too fragile for the surrounding violence. She could not keep still. Her voice cracked, raw and urgent as a whip:
Do you know what you were in your past life? Do you have any idea?.
