[Hall of Ancestral Study — Silthara Palace — Continuation]
The air in the Hall of Ancestral Study was warm with sunlight and ancient incense. Dust motes swirled like tiny spirits in the shafts of light beaming through the sandstone windows.
Levin sat at the long table, a hand unconsciously pressed to his abdomen as a faint tug twisted inside him—soft but sharp enough to steal a breath. A pulse, like someone knocking from inside the newly shaped womb.
'Why does it ache… after the second threshold…?'
Again it twisted, quiet and sharp, stealing his breath.
Across from him, Naburash unrolled an enormous parchment. Its edges were cracked with age, its ink the color of dried blood and desert clay. Upon it was painted the birth of Zahryssar—serpents, wolves, beasts, and men bound beneath a starless sky.
"As you know, Malika," Naburash said, his voice slow and reverent, "the Black Serpents once walked among us… bone of our bone… blood of our blood."
