Swiftcurrent Creek witchlore

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meekly lestan followed the other mayfair. the memory of his rage and his anger against the witch burnt in his belly, scorched his throat. but it was chased by the coldwater rush of pain and of fear, of the absence of peace.
the absence of peace. perhaps that was what stood in akavir's golden eyes now. more than exhaustion. more than agony. it was a gnawing. formless. empty. did he feel the same in himself?
lestan was silent.