Rosamund
Morwen opened the door, and the darkness that poured out of it was not the darkness of an unlit room.
It was alive.
It pressed against the doorframe like smoke, thick and cold, carrying a smell I recognised from the dead village at Ashenmoor: the smell of soil that had stopped producing, of wood that had stopped holding, of life that had surrendered itself to something older and hungrier.
I walked inside.
The room was barely recognisable; the corruption had consumed the walls entirely. Dark veins covered every surface from floor to ceiling, pulsing faintly in the dim light, and the air was so cold my breath came out in pale, visible clouds. The fire had died. The candles were out. The only light came from the veins themselves, a sickly, rhythmic glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Nevan lay on the bed.
The covers had been pulled back, and his shirt had been cut away, and what I saw made my knees buckle.
