A splintering headache welcomed Cain into the new day ,nothing new, and yet no less unpleasant for its familiarity. It felt like nails hammered behind his eyes, the taste of iron and stale wine still clinging to his tongue.
He extended a hand, crooked fingers pointing lazily at the carafe of wine by the table. His new servant jolted into action at once, scurrying as if a whip cracked over her back. She poured into the nearest cup, then hurried forward with trembling hands to offer it to her new master.
Cain snatched the vessel and drained it in one long pull, the bitter liquid burning down his throat. Only when the cup was empty did he breathe again, jaw tightening as he thought of the night that had passed. He had hoped , foolishly , to hear the voice of the Sea-God in his dreams. To be granted another whisper of prophecy, some clue, some spark. Instead, he had received nothing but nightmares, and not the prophetic one at that.
