Dark.
Empty.
A void.
And hunger. A deep, roaring hunger. A thirst and longing so consuming it broke him. Maker , his throat was burning and crumbling and falling down and down—his mouth cracked, a bloodless vault.
The Shadow Bringer was dust and stone and decay.
Anger rose up, coursing through the Bringer’s cold, marble skin and igniting it in a lightless fire. It spread through his fingers, down his hollow, brittle bones. Smoke rose from his skin—he could feel it! —and he knew this, knew this, knew this.
He knew this darkness, this feeling, this bitter thing.
He let the smoke drift over his bones, curling through the holes of his cracked lips. And he remembered, then. Esmer . The girl who shared in his power but did not cower from it. The girl who called him a monster but saw purpose in him regardless.
Esmer.
Esmer.
Esmer.
The dark coiled over him, righted his limbs, poured out from his eyes. The Shadow Bringer wanted it to consume him. Carry him. Take him—somewhere.
Where?
His mind was empty, useless, hollow as his bones.
Esmer.
Esmer.
Esmer.
Shadows consumed him, becoming him. They wanted him to wake up.
So he did.
