Lin Shen had been living in the dark for three months.
He had learned to breathe it. He had learned to swallow it. He had learned to let it fill his lungs and his belly and his bones until he could not remember what clean air tasted like. The Veiled Chorus did not worship in temples of light. They worshipped in caves and crypts and the forgotten places beneath the world, where the stone wept moisture and the air was thick with the smell of old blood.
He wore their robes now. Gray, like ash. Gray, like the space between sleep and waking. He had grown his hair long and let it hang over his face. He had learned their songs. He had learned their prayers. He had learned the names of their gods.
He had learned to lie.
But he had not forgotten why he was here.
Mira.
