His face had grown gaunt, as if he’d lost almost all his remaining weight, the bones of his skull jutting starkly through his skin. He looked— —like a corpse. Her heart lurched into her throat. His skin was grey and papery, eyes sunken. His dark hair hung limp around his face. Dirty and uncombed. He didn’t appear to have eaten, slept, or bathed in all the weeks since Helena had last seen him. “Are you—are you a—are you dead?” she forced herself to ask. Could he be killed and then made into a lich using his own body? Was that possible? He cracked a smile that made his lower lip split, a trickle
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My shayla ☹️
