Nevan
I stood in the corridor outside Jennifer's quarters and thought about the night I killed my father.
I was sixteen. The curse had been eating him from the inside for months, hollowing him out the way it hollowed out the Ashenmoor villages, slowly at first and then all at once. He'd stopped sleeping and stopped eating. The corruption had spread across the left side of his body, blackening the skin, twisting the joints until his hand curled into a permanent fist. The physicians said he had weeks, and Morwen had said he had less.
But it wasn't the curse that killed him.
It was me.
