Panic was a mortal affliction. A frantic, undignified scrabbling of a short-lived creature against the inevitable. It was noisy. It was messy. For five centuries, Caelan had regarded it with the detached curiosity of a scholar observing an insect.
Now, the insect was inside him, chewing through the foundations of his control.
Two days had passed since the spell had snapped. Forty-eight hours. Two cycles of a sun he hadn't seen. He had not moved from the wingback chair in his study, the one facing the cold, black hearth. The fire had died twelve hours ago. He hadn't noticed.
Viregate.
