The dusk of late evening had fallen.
Corsair Sedrid lay on his bed, facing the ceiling. The sheets that had once been neatly arranged now formed a cocoon around his legs, consuming all his body except his chest and head. He lay there, arms awkwardly positioned by his side. An open book rested beside him, a story he had indulged in as part of a failed attempt to distract himself.
His thoughts were on Ragnar.
Somewhere, out in the cold, his brother hid. Wounded. Injured. Exhausted. He waited for someone to come rescue him.
Corsair was that someone. He knew it.
Yet he could not part his mind from its obsession with the Inkblood Malady. Some inner component refused to believe it. It could not be possible that a whole segment of history had been wiped from record, a segment of history that
