At the mention of her name, the air warms. Katharine was one of them. One of the fallen. There are centuries of sisters here, ready to listen to her woes and cradle her with skeletal hands. But that was a lie. Whatever help they gave was not for her. It was for them, and they have twisted through Katharine like ivy. “Who are you?” he shouts, but he already knows, and so the queens who dwell in the Breccia do not bother to tell him. What remains of them is uglier than bones and gray, withered skin. It is crushed hopes. The air reeks of their bitterness.
