The day did not dawn golden.
It dawned gray.
A thin mist covered the ancient tombstones of Mirath' Cemetery, snaking between the rows of stone like a silent veil. The twisted trees surrounding the grounds swayed slightly in a cold, steady wind, making the dry leaves scratch the ground with a low, persistent sound—like whispers that never ended.
Damon was alone.
The shovel stuck in the damp earth.
The tie loose around his neck.
The shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, now stained with dark mud mixed with dried blood that he hadn't yet completely washed away.
Before him, seven newly closed mounds of earth lined up side by side.
Seven.
But that was only one section.
Others lay further in, where the trees grew denser.
He had spent the entire night there.
Without magic.
Without help.
Just digging.
