The stone beneath her knee was cold, though she did not feel it. Amara had long since forgotten the distinction between cold and warmth, between the living and the dead. She knelt without expression, her body still as carved marble.
"My king," she said at last. Her voice was flat, uncolored, the voice of one who had burned away every string that once bound her to the world. "What is your command?"
Morvain's laughter broke the silence, sharp and cruel, filling the throne room like a whip crack. His golden eyes gleamed with a hungry pride as he leaned forward.
"Come, my dear," he murmured, voice low and heavy. "You are the only hope left to me… my dear Amara."
The name rang through the chamber, but she did not flinch. Names meant nothing to her. They were anchors for the weak, chains for those foolish enough to cling to them. Amara had severed hers long ago.
