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I hope to see it fail again.

But with my place in the second passage, and my loose theories about evate souls, I clutch onto the faintest scheme, the wonder in my mind—

Can I offer anything to Mother? Will she listen if I speak?

Will Mother grantmea wish?

Mother isn’t just a god. She’sthegod.

It might be that the easy part is getting her attention on the mountain.

It’s what I would wish for that has me stumped.

21

DAXEEL

††††††

Daxeel’s steps are silent.

Boots kick through damp air. Wispy shadows skitter, his new companions. He feels their icy touch, like the cool whisper of a breeze on a wet face, both a kiss and a bite.

With each step closer to the bound and gagged fae crumpled on the ground, the shadows disturb. They shudder and twist and coil around his boots—then lash out at the slumbering fae.

Drip,

drip,

drip.

Daxeel sighs a sound as soft as his bootfalls. Eyes gleaming in the shadows of the dungeon, he lowers himself onto the wooden chair. His leathers glisten in the thick humidity.

Dampness gathers on the stone walls. It trickles down the cracks, over the crevices, and falls from the ceiling.

Drip,

drip,

drip.

Daxeel watches the droplets hit the small puddle on the damp floor. Beads of crimson blood merge with the stagnant water.

Drip,

drip,

drip.

Cobalt eyes burn with a rage that trickles down his muscles like ice. Tension shudders through him. The shadows hiss before they coil inwards and keep to his boots, his shoulders.

For a while, he just sits in the dark, quiet companions in the shadows, watching the steady rise and fall of the litalf’s chest. His gaze glides over the curled-up position the fae sleeps in; knees hiked to the chest, the disturbed frown on his face, as though bad dreams haunt him in his sleep.

Drip,

drip,

drip.