Nova Peak If you must leave, leave as though fire burns under your feet

Wylla watched him go with one deadpan eye. Part of her felt guilty for the self-pity she wallowed in now. He was still hurting, too, and here she was allowing him to waste his time and energy on her. She followed his limping figure until it was out of sight and then hung her head with a slow sigh.

Umbra would pay for what she’d done to Sagtannet.

Mahler returned at length. He would find her lying on the ground, staring furiously out toward the storming cliffs. When he first reached for her socket, she withdrew with a growl, but eventually she let him clean it. She winced and shuddered with every press of his tongue against the sensitive flesh within. She only silenced her own whimpering by biting her tongue so hard it began to bleed.

He offered assurances. Wylla snorted, made a sound low in her throat, then said, don’t bullshit me, Mahler. You know it’ll never mend. Not the eye, anyway. The socket, maybe. She knew what he meant, but the petty need to argue soured her tongue all the same. She would always wear a scar there to remind her of her folly, and to project outward the ugliness of her soul.