"Death walks among us," the priestess continued, her voice taking on that strange, echoing quality, as if more than one presence spoke through her. "No one escapes it. Death is made flesh and dwells among those whose souls it will one day reap. One lifetime after another, the circle continues."
If anything, the explanation only deepened Circe's bewilderment. Each answer seemed to birth three more questions. Still, it was more than Dena had ever given her.
Dena had once said that Thalora was "the center," but she had refused to elaborate, no matter how often Circe pressed. The memory pricked at her now, sharp with frustration. Pushing it aside, Circe straightened her spine. She had come for answers, and she would not leave without them.
