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... started organizing itself around when nothing else made sense. Bones were now furniture for agony to drape itself over. Nerves sang like pulled harp strings. Skin? Mostly decorative.

Lindarion lay curled against the far wall of the cell.

Not because he chose to.

Because there was nowhere left to go.

His breathing came in uneven pulls. Shallow. Controlled. The kind that rationed oxygen because anything deeper would mean moving something he hadn't catalogued yet. < ...

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Him, as if a knife has been twisted in his heart: “Brother, what have *you* done with my fiancée?”

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—So fragrant.

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