The demon froze. The crowd shifted uneasily.
She turned back to Lindarion. "You're lucky I still need you."
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a ragged cough, the taste of copper spilling over his tongue. His vision swam again. Somewhere above, the sky was the wrong color, black threaded with crimson veins, pulsing faintly like a living wound.
Hands gripped his arms, too many hands. He tried to jerk free, but his strength was gone.
Nysha's voice followed him as the darkness started to take him again.
"Don't fight it. You're in no shape to move. And if you want to live long enough to kill him next time… you'll listen."
The last thing he saw was Veythar, standing in the distance, sword resting over one shoulder, watching without a word.
And then everything went black.
—
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Not blood. Not the acrid stench of scorched stone.
Herbs. Dried and hanging from the rafters, the faint aroma of bitter tea beneath them.
