e dark. A heavy, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time

ushed herbs, dry dirt, and old smoke. She tried to shift her leg, but a stiff resistance stopped her. She looked do

ed to her, hunched over a wooden table. The man was grinding something in a sto

. The silent watcher fro

e, the bone-snapping fall. She should be dead. The re

d. Her voice sounded like gra

alm, utterly unreadable. He didn't answer. He picked up a chipped clay bowl filled with water and wal

ted. But the raw, burning thirst in her throat overrode her pride. She parted her lips, letting th

, maybe in his early twenties, but his eyes held a stillness

her voice gaining a

turned his back on her again

some semblance of control, some spark of her former power. She searched the void in her chest. Nothing. Just a dea

ascade of fragmented memories. The trial room. The cold

his face carved from marble. "Eve Salazar, your arrogance led to the

at happened in the snow, her mind hit a blank wall. She couldn't remember. She only remembered th

d, severing her connection to the

dden movement sent a bolt of white-hot agony through her broken

d the pestle and reached out, his hand movin

he snapped, her voi

ression unchanged. He turned away, opened a rickety cabinet, and pulled out a relatively cl

r body. He gently placed the damp

up at him, her breath coming in short, angry pants. She was entirely at his mercy