Lorraine gripped a withered stick tightly, her only defense against the shadows ahead. Curiosity burned in her chest, stronger than the fear creeping up her spine. She knew pain well, an old friend she could endure. But if this figure was something darker, something that could wound her soul, she needed protection.
Hence, the magical… stick.
Her fingers tightened around the stick as she crept forward, the damp earth soft beneath her feet, hidden under the sprawling vyrnshade shrub. He turned suddenly, his gaze cutting through the darkness to find hers.
Her breath caught, a scream clawing at her throat. But the scream refused to break free. She hadn't spoken in over two years, her voice rusted and buried beneath layers of silence. She couldn't scream.
Before she could do anything, he let out a sharp, panicked cry, high and raw like a newborn torn from its mother. He was scared of her.
