It was cold. But I knew the cold — I had been baptized by it. And the darkness. And the First. I could handle the cold.

​

But wait….  I wasn’t me. I was dreaming.

​

I was Darrow.

​

His voice slithered out of the nothingness as soon as I had the realization.

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“Grant me your strength, grant me — fervor…. Oh, supreme. Grant me….”

​

The sound faded in and out. I didn’t catch everything he said. He chanted breathlessly and grunted like every word was a chore, like he had to exert great effort to choke out each syllable.

 

What was he doing? Where was he? Who was he talking to? I could see nothing in the darkness.

 

He hissed. The breath was sharp in his lungs. He tasted blood. And salt. He was cold as ice but covered in sweat.

 

“Oh — supreme.” Another hiss. “Grant me your fortitude. Grant me your fervor.”

 

“Ms. Bellamy?”

 

Cold. Salt. Blood.

 

Then pain. Small, but burning. Constant. Building.

 

Something clicked into place.

 

Triumph. A laugh in this cold, bitter place.

 

“Thank you, oh thank you.”

 

And then the pain exploded.

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