Ravyn winced—tried to focus. “Elspeth,” he said again. “Tell Elspeth not to hate me.” Something fractured in the dark room I inhabited. The Nightmare’s hands shook on his sword. Unflinching, five hundred years old, he looked down at Ravyn, his lost descendant, and trembled. “I wanted a better Blunder for her. If you perish, that Blunder will never exist.”
