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It’s too late to unmake what the bees have wrought.
The room is getting hotter, is roasting them alive, and it is her fault. She is making the floor below them tremble and seeing colors she has no names for blossoming into being all around her.
She isn’t trying to fight, Voyne reminds herself, but that doesn’t stop the paroxysms of pain and power from twisting her frail body, pitching her this way and that, making her spine bend and nearly crack as she howls.
