I could have been lying here for hours, or days. For the longest time, it’s as though my limbs are weighted, too heavy to move. My entire body feels like it’s burning from the inside. During the haze, I manage to open my eyes. I stare down at my arms to find hundreds of bites healed over into scars. My skin is overly reddened—as if I spent too much time in the sun—and damp with fever. Even the brush of my fingertips is painful. Sometimes there are people in the room, voices I recognize. I try to open my eyes, but they are so heavy. Always heavy. My lips move to ask for Aithinne, for her painful healing, but I can’t speak. Everything hurts except for when he’s near. Kiaran. The taste of his power lingers on my tongue, the breath of his name on my lips. I could swear I hear him whisper to me in that fae language that sounds as soft and lyrical as a haunting lullaby. I want him to say the words again, the ones he said to me before the battle. Aoram dhuit. I will worship thee. He never says them.
What do You think about The Vanishing Throne (2016)?
