72
Lincoln
Darkness surrounds me. My lungs ache with the need for oxygen. Wood presses against my skin, tight as a vise.
Orange light burns into my eyes. I wince against the assault. One moment, I’m being crushed inside a tree. The next, I sit at a table in a familiar space. It’s the meeting room where the one-time Quilliam held court with other regents so long ago. There’s no mistaking how the walls are lined with the carved peaks of so many wizard staffs.
My chest aches as I try to pull in air. On reflex, I set my hand on my throat.
There’s only one other being in the chamber with me. Quilliam. He appears just as he did in the first vision: a lanky humanoid with a monkey’s face and tufts of hair on his cheeks.
“This is an illusion,” says Quilliam. “You’re still dying.”
It takes so
