Coming, coming, her black sword leveled at me, her skeletal face, her black hair, black as the queen’s, riding out behind her impossibly long on the hot breath of the wind like a draft from a bread oven, her hair a wedding train her eyes just holes with nothing in them this was my forever this fear this failure this how the duke his daughter a smear in Gallardia a nothing, the nothing in Dal-Gaata’s eyes.
