It was like being in an oven. Heat rolled off the in shimmering waves and pooled at the base of Mavius's mask.
it was a good thing he had exchanged the mask from iron to ceramic pre-battle....
Still, he could feel it warming against the blacked skin at his neck and with every breath, the thing on his face felt more like a cage.
He wanted to rip it off and feel wind on his cheeks. He wanted, stupidly and persistently, to remember the shape of his own mouth without a stranger's stare curling on the servants' lips. But the mirror of memory that came in mind betrayed him: every time a maid's eyes met his, the same ripple passed over her face, the same impossible disgust. Beauty had been a currency; he had spent it and come away with ash.
He missed the voice more than anything,the smooth, easy sound that had once opened doors and women and wine. Now speech came in gravel and coughs, thick as sand. He had bled blood of his for this. He had paid what the old rites demanded.
