Ankyra Sound I cut my hand upon my blade

That was not the answer Wylla was hoping for. She kept her gaze fixed into the grotto's wet mouth for a moment longer, bristling with frustration, then turned to see who had spoken.

Rosalyn did not remember her, but she remembered Rosalyn. She remembered the pirate wench's threat from the cliffs, and also remembered the pain in her stare months prior, back when Stag was still with her. At least there was a spark of familiarity in those golden pools before. At least Wylla could cite that as justification for any indignation she felt in this ruddy woman's presence.

Now there was nothing of the sort. Only a voice that was almost triumphant. That's not possible, said Wylla, curling her lips over her teeth. Not a threat. Only a disbelieving sneer. That bitch is immortal. Where is she? Where are you hiding her?