The shadow reaches and for once, actually snatches her. The hands seem to be everywhere, seizing her wrists, her hair, the hem of her dress, pulling her apart. She screams until her throat burns, until her voice tears itself raw against the inside of her chest, but no sound leaves her mouth.
Someone calls her name, sickly sweet.
Hamund Kost's voice slips through the trees, soft as rot beneath leaves. Reasonable. Persuasive. Promising power and safety in exchange for magic and intellect. But something in him speaks to a yearning for submission. If she does not comply, he will make her.
She sees herself rise, pale and terrible; living but not. The necromancers doll.