Odda gripped the knife, trying to ignore the strange mist. He focussed instead on Wulfram’s voice. As much as he hated it, it was the only thing that could lead him through this unnatural fog. But he had to be careful. If he paid attention to his former Master for too long, he felt strange inside. Hollowed out, as if the golden-eyed elf were trying to get inside him once more and steal his soul.
Come, Unseelies, the time is now! The voice broke through his thoughts and he concentrated on it, chasing down the sense of which way to go. But it was maddening, like the mist, and difficult to pin down. He frowned, seeing a light bobbing ahead. His steps slowed as he squinted at it, fascinated by the patterns the light made in the fog.
A sudden screech of a seagull startled him, bringing him a
