Lysander's POV
The heavy wooden doors of my private room slammed shut behind me.
The chamber was cold. High up on the wall, small openings let the chilly wind whistle through the dark.
A single torch flickered in the corner, throwing long shadows across the floor. Near the back door stood a small wooden table holding a bowl filled with cold water.
A large mirror hung on the wall right above it.
I walked over to the bowl with slow, heavy steps. My chest felt hollow, and a dull pain throbbed in my ribs where the white beast's ice magic had locked around my lungs.
My boots dragged across the cold floor, leaving wet mud behind.
I stopped right in front of the mirror and looked at my face.
The young man looking back at me looked exhausted. Blood had dried right under his nose, and a dark bruise was forming on his nose.
His brown eyes looked sunken and dark from weeks of using heavy magic.
