And then he felt it: A presence brighter than the weak souls of the dead, younger than the ancient halls of Morthryn. And yet . . . Powerful. A power that even mirrored his own. He whirled around to see a flash of smoke move from one door to another. The pull continued down the hall. He smiled. There you are. A voice taunted back, If you want me, then come get me. It was not Morthryn’s voice. Not the voice of the dead. Not the voice of the mask or the eye or the heart. He inhaled the fleeting scent of burnt spice. A fierce hunger pang ripped through him. A longing for something that had never
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