Thorne stood by the narrow, vertical slit of a window that served as his only connection to the world above. Outside, the silver leaves of the Great Heartwood were whispering in the wind…. a frantic, rhythmic rustling that sounded like a thousand voices pleading for a reprieve they wouldn't receive.
"Let him enjoy his five minutes of glory," Thorne whispered, his voice barely audible over the gale. "The people are fickle, Korash. They love a light that blinds them, but they always crawl back to the shade when their eyes begin to sting."
But as he spoke, the memory of that blinding white pillar of light… the way it had effortlessly pulverized the Sun-Stone… made the hollow of his stomach ache. He was a man of logic, but even he knew that some miracles were too heavy to be ignored.
