It was the quiet I noticed first.
It was not the kind of silence that fell with dawn or snowfall — it was eerie, almost suffocating silence. My eyelids fluttered open, and my eyes looked up at a ceiling I did not know—slick black stone that was shot through with glowing silver light and throbbing, as if it were a heartbeat. I lay on a slab, warm and cold at once, for a heart-stopping moment I wondered if I was dead.
“Amara.”
The voice was soft. Feminine. Ancient.
I sat up too suddenly, my head swam, but as soon as I looked upward the breath burned in my throat.
And there before me was a woman in white fire. Her hair was moonlight and her eyes—those eyes—were mine. Or rather, mine were hers.
“You’re awake,” she said, stepping forward, and the fire around her did not burn, but soothed.
