Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon’s Spawn directly overhead … weeping down upon her … … and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T’lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andii’s regard. Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache. And she could hold back no longer.
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