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Death. Death was all around Gwin. It clawed at her skin, threatening to pull her into its stone cold depths. The smell of it rose and fell inside her like the tide, sending her internal sense of balance off. The taste of it clutched at her throat, but she dared not swallow the lump that formed there.
When she’d broken free of one tendril of darkness, another would reach up and ensnare her. It would whisper that sleep would be easier than fighting. Just a moment’s rest in the ice cold, crashing waves and the pain would stop.
She was tempted. She was so tempted to close her eyes to the dead bodies all around her. The dead bodies of Templars falling out of their stone prisons and into pain-filled deaths.
She was tempted to ignore their cries of pain. The agony of men who emerged from t
