I watched in growing horror as Tomas died time after time. By sword, crossbow, and knife, the methods grew ever more grotesque. Each time, I watched helplessly as the life flickered and died in his inky, black eyes. My heart screamed silently. I clung to his hand as it grew cold and limp. Then only the shell of his body was left. His spirit, soul, all that I truly liked about him slipped away. I was alone again. Each dream ended the same way, with me kneeling over Tomas. I was alone and dry-eyed, unable to cry in the midst of a corpse-strewn battlefield, while Orwin’s disembodied voice demanded to know how it felt to watch him die. “Does it hurt?” I woke to the sensation of drowning. I scrambled into the sitting position, gasping for air. My heart raced. Unshed tears burned my eyes and a hard lump blocked the back of my throat. Nerves raw with the grief, I gained my feet and stumbled for the door, narrowly missing Darnay’s out-flung hand on the floor above his head. In my efforts to keep my balance, I tumbled outside.
