The healer remained in the corner of the cold chamber, her knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Darian’s lifeless body still lay where it had fallen the night before, the chains still binding his wrists and ankles, though they no longer held purpose. His glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, blood vessels burst red around the corneas, frozen in an eternal echo of agony.
Her tears had long dried, leaving dark trails on her cheeks, but her chest ached as though they were still falling. She had not moved. She had not slept. She could only sit there, silent, as the sounds of laughter and feasting from the assassins the night before had died away, replaced now with the muted steps of soldiers and the whispers of departure.
It was morning.
Kaelthorn stood tall before the Ass
