The ridge was silent, save for the ragged breathing of a thousand people who had forgotten how to own their own lungs.
Alistair stood as a pillar of stone, his arms trembling under the weight of the Prince. The "hum"—that rhythmic, synthetic pulse at the base of his skull—was reaching a fever pitch. It was a physical barrier, a wall of fog that made the shivering survivors look like smudges of grey ink against the snow.
Then, Asarmose moved.
It wasn't a slow return to consciousness. It was a jolt. The Prince's eyes snapped open, and he didn't look at the horizon; he looked up at Alistair. There was no weariness in his gaze. There was only the cold, terrifying clarity of a man who had seen the blueprint of a soul and found it vandalized.
"Put me down," Asarmose commanded.
