makinglies | The Shadowfell

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faerun

The Shadowfell

Shadowfell

During the early, blue dawn of the morning, a hole opens in the Material Plane. The energy hums no differently than it had in the facility in Duplicity that had brought them here in the first place. This time, however, just before breaching the glowing white surface of light, a chill greets those who pass through. One, two, three, four shadows step through the light before it closes with barely a pop of energy beside the austere white marble of the recently recast temple.

Waiting on the other side of the gate is a land of barren monochrome. Plants like ash, rivers with the consistency of blood, and pools of thick, dripping ichor decorate a land of black and grey stone that connects to an equally grey sky. The life, like the color, seems gone from the land, and where there should have been unearthly silence, there were low murmurs and ominous creaks and noises that didn't quite make sense at the periphery of everything.

The landscape, at least, could not be called flat. Great, black mountains broke the dim, grey sky like blotches of ink on canvas. Even the group of armed visitors stood now upon a tall, but sloping hill marked with a single, gnarled tree. At the foot of the hill, ahead of the group, sat the hazy, black scar of what was once a city.

Spires of buildings stood as broken bones in the place Melvaunt had as its mirror, with the shattered docks even dipping into a charcoal ocean beyond it. Maléfell, once a town inhabited and infested in equal measure with ghosts, gasts, dopplegangers, and malice, now festers with a malevolent haze that visibly shrouds the city. At its edges, just outside the haze, is a pulsating mass. It's upon closer inspection that the mass gains definition: bodies. Undead. Skeletons. Ghosts haunting black ooze and rotted corpses that press at the Darkland's edges, daring to neither venture in nor go too far from their home.

Hundreds of the displaced mill about, gorging on more of the black ichor that fills the waterways into the city. Here they wait, trapped, the sounds of them muffled and nearly silent in the blanketing nothing of the Plane around them.

♥

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Jon's breath catches in his throat when he feels the tug inside of himself. For a second there's confusion. He's not sleeping, he hasn't looked up. This sensation is the Ceaseless Watcher dragging him upward and downward and inward. It is gravity, something inescapable, powerful, unknowable. The Archivist's first instinct is to look toward the sky, gaze searching for the endless expanse of pupil he expects to see.

It's darkness up there, but not the unblinking Eye. Instead, there are the empty sockets of the Raven Queen's mask. Chris sinks down, Wolfe follows suit, and Amelia holds her ground. The goddess' thoughts, images, information spills over into his mind, so much like what he's used to and so different at the same time. It's not just horror and terror, but thanks and curiosity.

Amelia's deference is a polite salute, and Jon fumbles mentally for a moment before offering his recorder up toward the Matron. He has no particular sign of respect to give, nothing that feels natural apart from this, sharing the story they've created. "I've recorded what happened, if you wanted to listen. If you, uh... didn't just sort of... watch."

Edited (getting rid of some repetition) 2025-12-05 04:50 (UTC)

She looms, as she does. She is death and winter and fate and holds those that interest her and casts aside that which does not. She holds doors open and keeps them firmly shut; the Matron of Death.

She is also a sentimental thing.

She turns her masked face from one figure to another, and suddenly she's not fifteen feet tall, but seven and among them, and her hand traces past Amelia's face like a brush of a chill, dawn morning. 'Enough.' An echo or an answer, she doesn't elaborate. 'Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty.'

A feather brushes along Wolfe's arm where he carries his wing tattoo, and the ink feels warm on his skin for a moment. 'Welcome, champion of love.'

She curves her long form around Jon, and a curious finger traces along the odd contraption. 'Soul of watching and knowing and gaining and growing. Oddities and pecularities and interest?'

Chris keeps his knee and listens and waits. She hasn't addressed him yet, but they're the new souls in her hand; he doesn't mind that she's letting her curiosity run with them. They deserve her interest and fondness.

He keeps his head bowed and waits. He's not even sure if he wants her attention. What would she say of him? Fraction of the thing she was actually interested in? A copy and, thus, useless? A novelty...

It didn't matter, so long as she took a shine to his people, she would ensure their place after their lives ended and perhaps even take a vested interest in putting them in the weave, and that was all he could hope for right now.

Champion of love She calls him and he still can't respond, though it fills his heart to hear it. He's always liked what Chris said once, that he's made of love, and to have a literal God that can touch his soul and say as much? He doesn't even know how to thank Her for that certainty. He hopes She knows in the way that deities must simply know things.

She calls Amelia Mistress of Loyalty and that feels right too, as right as Enough. Maybe now Amelia will believe it. Jon She lingers on, running a finger that is a talon but still a pale woman's finger over the tape recorder in admiration, tilting Her head like he's seen Little Thunder do when she has a particularly shiny bauble in her possession. That is a little what they are now, isn't it? Possessions of the Raven Queen to collect when the time comes? Like Chris before them.

Chris, who still hasn't raised his head. The tension is clear through his form, head bowed and very still. Its the same way he acts when he doesn't want to break a moment because he's sure the other side of it will be gutting.

Wolfe reaches to slip his fingers under Chris' palm, threading his with his partner's digits as he leans his shoulder into Chris' shoulder as a supportive weight. It's still a little warm where She touched his tattoo, a warmth he considers for himself and for Chris. After all, that's why he has the a wing on his skin at all.

That's why he, or any of them, are here at all.

Enough, She says. Shadow of shadows, She says. Amelia's heart leaps into her throat and then falls into her stomach.

Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty. Which is she? The shadows or someone made of loyalty? If she is enough, why is she enough? Which part of her is enough? What in any hell makes her enough?

Her cheek still feels cool as she falls to the ground, knees and then ass touching the ground as her feet splay beside her. She stares down at her hands - dirty, ash-covered, a brownish red from her own blood - and tries to keep it in. Jon is right there. The Raven Queen is somehow in her mind. Are the others there too? Can they hear the way she spirals over something likely meant as a title or interesting description?

'Enough' should be all she needs from this. It's what matters. It's all that matters. So why is her stomach clenched and her eyes wide with fear as she stares down at her hands? Hands that kill to protect, that showed their worth in battle today? Hands that soothe and touch with love and desire when they're wanted?

Why can't she still feel like enough?

Even at her smaller size, the way the Raven Queen moves is so reminiscent of Helen or Michael that Jon feels an instinctive desire to pull away. He manages to master that. This is Chris' god and she's not going to stab him. Probably.

Not without reason, certainly. That doesn't make her less uncanny when she curls around him like some shadowy snake and sends Amelia to the ground, confusion and fear pouring off of her.

But the Matron seems to be addressing him directly, and that seems slightly more important to attend to than the rogue's mental spiral. Wolfe is right there along with Chris. He'll at least be able to put a hand on her. The Archivist doesn't dare move with the way he's been encircled.

"Yes. All kinds. Here. You press the button." Jon's own voice fills the dead air from the start of his narration. "It... captures voices." Praise whatever Faerunian god of Knowledge exists for his time in Duplicity giving him the chance to learn how to explain these sorts of things to people with no context. "Captures memories, really, and let's you listen to them when you like."

Her head cocks to the side, then the other as the tape player runs.

Her finger traces along the object…and then dips ever so slightly within it. When she pulls away, a trail of Jon’s voice shaped like the dormant branch on a tree follows along and collects in her hand.

‘Voice of what watches, observes, puts nothing into something. Collects. Collector.’

There’s a small pulse of energy and the batteries in Jon’s cassette player fall out into dust, replaced by a small glowing mote as the recording plays on, uninterrupted.

‘joy. Good. More. We will collect together.’

She uncoils with a chilly breeze through his hair and turns her faces to the others and then to Chris.

She stands before him, a talon-like finger tipping under his chin to raise his face.

‘Lost. Stolen from me. Taken and copied and copied and twisted and found. My missing feather. Two of a kind turned three, my omen caller.’

For a moment, however brief, there is warmth. Eccentric, yes, but what was hers was fiercely and undeniably so.

Just as they all are now.

‘Balance restored. What do you need, fledglings?’

Wolfe reaches for his hand and Chris takes it and squeezes tight even as he dare not look up. Not even when Amelia falls to the ground nearby, though he reaches to brush any part of her he can reach with his bloodied hand while the Matron is distracted with Jon.

And then she’s there and he’s staring into her fathomless eyes as he had -Chris had? He had- when he’d held no holy symbol, just the taste of chains and a broken oath to a god who’d turned from him. She’d accepted him and his shaken faith then. She accepted him now.

Had he not, arguably, been more dedicated and longer-serving than his original by this point? His transgressions of the undead of Duplicity aside…

Yet she calls him three of a kind. She calls him Omen Caller and his tears feel hot on his cheeks compared to the chill her touch brings.

“My lady.” His voice wavers with soul-shattering relief, but that’s all he can bring himself to say, even in the face of her direct question.

Amelia crumples and Wolfe reaches out with his free hand, the one attached to the arm emblazoned with her leaves. Champion of love indeed. He's inked with it, etched into his skin, a constant declaration, and its that love that spurs him to hold tight to his two partners now.

He can tell Chris is going to cry through that touch. He has a specific tension to him, a silent but full body groan in how much he hates to cry but knows that in some particular instances he can't avoid it. He always fights it anyway, but this time at least its not very hard. Being told you're wanted - needed - by the object of your faith is too much of a relief to combat.

It takes Wolfe a moment to pull his attention from their little knot to the question their Matron has asked, but even when he does he doesn't know how to answer. What do they need? So much, but She's already given them a much needed boon. It seems like greed to ask for more. But She's asking...

Unsure, Wolfe squeezes Chris' hand, but looks to Amelia, and then to Jon. If there's anything to ask for that She could grant in Mystra's steady it wouldn't be their place in the Weave, nor does he think She has the ability to keep them whole when their power fades, but perhaps something that they can use so they're at least not at all disadvantage.

"If you would honor us with a simple boon, Jon and I don't speak this world's Common language, and I fear we won't be able to learn fully before we no longer have the benefit of our waning powers. Is there a way we could be granted that gift? To communicate in this world's tongue?"

Each of her loves - because they are, they must be if it feels so right to have them with her like this - reach for her and she finds she doesn't have the strength to grip them in return. All she manages is to rest a few fingers over theirs as she tries to hold it all in, to keep herself together until they're not in the presence of a god who's granted them so much and yet made her feel so insignificant.

It's not the Raven Queen's fault. Less than two days ago, Amelia thought she was from a different plane, from a city where she had grown up, lost one family then gained another, and become a skilled leader. Now she's a copy - Taken and copied and copied and twisted and found. - and she can do nothing, nothing about it but grieve for what was never hers and once again cast wishes for things to be different into the void.

Balance restored, She says, but not for the rogue. Her shoulders tremble and she shakes her head. There is no balance in her, there never was. It's why hearing Enough simply... wasn't that.

'Who am I? Who am I supposed to be when all that I was, all I believed of myself, was a lie?'

She can't find the strength for the words. It's not her place to ask anyway. She doesn't need to know. She'll find a way through this because she has to. Her family needs her to be whole again, and so she'll make it happen. Someday.

Someday.

Edited (slight clarity in internal questions) 2025-12-05 07:26 (UTC)

Amelia is spiraling something awful. With the Raven Queen's overwhelming presence, the Archivist isn't getting as much off of her as he might, but anyone with eyes can see it. Chris being brought to tears by the Matron's acceptance, by Her welcoming him home and calling him one of three--three siblings, one branch--Her Omen Caller, isn't surprising, but it does pull at him. He wants to kneel down with the rest and pull the cleric into his arms, but that's for another time.

Now? Now his tape recorder has been magically enhanced, granted a power source that won't run out. It's already a boon, but Wolfe asks for more, and Jon can't help wondering if they should be offering something in return.

"Common is just the start for us, for me, at least. Imagine the memories and stories I could collect- we could collect with more languages. I need to be able to understand and speak to ask the right questions, tease out the most interesting things. Common will let me collect some, but I'll keep studying. Elven, Dwarven, any language I can hear. I want to learn it. And... when we come to your halls at the last, they'll all be yours. Everything I've managed to collect on this"--he lifts the tape recorder again--"will be yours. Grant us the language we need to start, my Lady, and you'll have more for your collection."

The Matron of Ravens considers her fledglings, the strings tying her masks to her head shudder, and maybe it was a laugh if a laugh could be ethereal. In a blink, she is twice her own height once more, arms and wings spread wide open. A gentle rain of black and gold droplets of possibility flutter as snow over the group to stick in hair and on skin like the same chilly substance it emulates.

'Individual. Unique. Grow and change and affect and be affected. Learn deep and delve, and then return. Return and share and revel and do it all again.' Along with her words comes a Knowing, and understanding that she does not say but imparts within them: what Common she grants is that of a child's grasp, but what boon she grants is ever more useful: the ability to learn and learn terribly quick. What might have taken years is a trifle of months or weeks in the grand scheme of Fate.

'Until the nest calls for you. Until need beckons once more. My magic to my death to my fledglings. Shine pretty. Soar high.'

Her will is balm and booming proclamation within their souls all at once, and as quickly as she had arrived, the Raven Queen vanishes into shadow.

He can't look away from her even as her attention shifts to all of the group as a whole. As he listens to and hears Jon and Wolfe's suggestions. They're good suggestions...but the Raven Queen helps those who help themselves, and as the gold and black glimmers of possibility fall on them like the most divine stardust, he already suspects she's answered their request the way she wants even before the soul-deep knowledge of her boon comes to him.

She was ever one to hold to her own rules, but she could be equally kind as she could be wrathful, and there was certainty in that. Comfort.

He barely offers a small prayer and word of thanks before she's vanished back to her castles. Her nests.
And now they need to leave. The shadowlands are ever dangerous, especially so close to a Darkland.

His wing arches out from his back to curve behind Jon and pull him in close, and it doesn't stop touching him as Chris casts his Word of Recall to tug them back to the fresh, chilly air of the lakeside camp and their temple refuge.

As if it had all been an odd dream.

Even once there, he doesn't stand, just shifts back with gritted teeth until he's sitting fully on the ground. They all likely needed a moment.

The feeling of deific pressure leaves at once with the echo of birds in flight but the sense of having been touched, having been changed remains in his soul more than in the shimmering droplets still stuck to his skin. The oppressive darkness remains, though, and he's glad with Chris covers them with his wings. When they recede, he can breathe again.

Thank you, he manages silently, a wealth of gratitude he couldn't give voice to in the moment but hopes she can still receive now. It remains as a little golden knot of emotion lodged in his throat as he turns towards the present and the immediate problem.

Chris' chest is still bloody, or looks it with hsi shirt stained dark just under his breastplate.

Wolfe brings the hand that's holding Chris' tightly down against the wound, the back of his hand cool against the torn barrier of fabric over the skin as he awkwardly applies pressure he knows is needed to stem the flow from the angle at which he's sitting, unwilling or unable to let go of Amelia and use both hands. "Can you heal yourself?"

He'll do it in a heartbeat but Chris isn't moments from death or anything so dire, and if Wolfe did heal when Chris still had it in him to do it, Wolfe knows he would get chastised for not using his magic wisely. Its easier to concentrate on caring for Chris' injury in the moment, though, than in how his words still catch in his throat, and how he's trembling just a little not from the battle but from the encounter and the ramifications of what was done, both by their Queen's hand and what Wolfe may have done to himself in saving Jon's life.

It's not for her, the blessing bestowed on the party. It's for Jon and for Wolfe, to help them on their journey to mastery of a language they need to know to survive. She's grateful for that, distantly, because that piece being given to them is going to save them, all of them, headaches and heartache from bruised egos and the metaphorical banging of heads against walls. It should be enough. It is enough.

Why can't she feel like enough?

She's only vaguely aware of the return to the lake. Everything feels far away after their meeting with the Raven Queen, as if the mundane things in life simply don't affect her anymore. Only they do because she notices the tug at her hand when Wolfe reaches for Chris as he should, the cleric is injured and the chill of the air settles over her entire body, not just her face. The land of the living sings around them with birds calling and woodland creatures skittering among the brush and trees not far from where they've set up camp. And... Wolfe's voice? From beside her? He said something, didn't he? Or did she imagine that around the sound of her own breathing in her ears?

Everything feels like too much, suddenly. The Raven Queen, their work in the Shadowfell, the truth of what they are, the breeze, her clothes, Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty, the hand around hers, all of it. Every last bit of it.

Her hands rip away from the others as she struggles to loosen and shove off her boots before she gets to her feet. Her knives and mask fall next, starting a line toward the lake that continues with her bodice, her belts, her shirt, and her pants. By the time her feet touch the cool water the only thing left on her person is a cropped undershirt and her small clothes. She rushes far enough into the water to dunk herself and rinse off the first layer of ash and dust, coming up with a gasp that turns into soft panting as she scrubs at her face. She can't remove everything without soap, but it helps. It's something to focus on that isn't the overwhelming sense of everything that happened in the Shadowfell and helps bring her back to the moment.

Her breathing is steady again when she turns back to look at the others, eyes no longer wide but body still tense as she stands chest-deep in the water. Words aren't there yet either, but she doesn't move to go deeper or to go back under the surface. Things will get better, things will be better, she just needs to bleed out the adrenaline and fear with sensations that can't be mistaken for anything but what they are.

And just like that, they're back on the Material Plane, icy air even colder than the Raven Queen's touch. Her touch, her boon, her presence! The Archivist's mind is feeling with possibilities, curiosity, and a wonder he's rarely associated with anything good. He's stood in the presence of something vast, unknowable, horrifying and beautiful and She had talked to them. Communicated. Granted what they asked for and more gifts on top of that. And she'd never asked for his soul or something terrible in return.

Chris' feathers are Her feathers, and he's in pain and injured, and Amelia's broken, and Wolfe is holding together...

The broken fractures in his own mind buckle as he tips his head back and stares into the sky, white clouds threatening rain or snow or just a chilly day in thin light. There's no eye, but Jon can picture it, the thing filling his soul and slowly leaching out of him.

It begins with a huff, then a giggle, and he's suddenly gone, helpless as manic laughter shakes his thin frame. He's met something terrible and magnificent and it was kind.

He doesn't belong here, he doesn't deserve it, this isn't his world, but it's one he'd wanted for so many years. One he'd hoped his own might be in some deep and desperately small part of himself.

He makes a small grunt of pain when Wolfe presses Chris's own hand back to his wound, and he nods. Mass Cure Wounds takes up the last of his strongest magic for the day, and he sighs for the effort and the relief from the pain and the knowledge that the rest of his family would be healed too. What lingers of the wound will heal when he sleeps, and gods knew he intended to sleep sooner over later.

"Thank you, Wolfe...for saving Jon. And for your support." It's about all he can mutter to his mage before their other partners start crumbling around them.

Amelia dashes off to the water, stripping down as she goes. Chris looks from her to Wolfe and squeezes his hand before letting go. He would likely be better suited, considering his last conversation with their rogue.

Yet as he gets back to one knee, Jon's laughter starts, and it's the kind of laughter he's only heard twice. That record-playing room with their memories that went wrong, and on the roof with Lucian. It twists his stomach, but when he goes to Jon's side, he doesn't try to shush him; he just takes his hand and presses it to his lips.

He's not sure he even needs to ask. "I'm sorry, I know that was probably a lot for all of you. I don't think I could have warned you in a way that would have helped." It's not loud, but he offers it all the same to those who can hear him.

Chris thanks him and Wolfe replies with a pair of kisses, one to his lips and one to his forehead. Something has shifted after all that; the distance he felt between them all last night feels lessened now, even as they're made to split up in care for their other partners.

Even so, it takes Wolfe a calculated minute or two to get himself up off the ground and go after Amelia. She needs a moment without anyone's attention he thinks, and he needs a moment to steel himself against the effort of rising from sitting on the ground. He does finally manage to take his feet, pops in his back and the click of his knees notwithstanding.

"I don't think words can accurately explain how that felt," he agrees gently, glancing at Jon is a bit of worry but if Chris doesn't seem rattled by it, then its probably Jon working through some things. "When you pray for your spells in the morning, I might join you, if thats alright."

They do owe Her so much, and will for the rest of their days. And beyond, hopefully.

He kisses Chris again, this time to his temple, and gives Jon an unobtrusive but nonetheless supportive squeeze to the shoulder. "We'll meet you inside," he says, and turns towards the lake, stooping to gather Amelia's clothes as he goes, the healing spell having done its work for him so well he barely grunts when bending over.

When Amelia turns back to look at them, Wolfe is waiting with her clothes over his arm, smiling gently.

Laughter rings out and it's not a happy sound. Amelia feels it deep in her bones and the shiver that pulls through her after hearing it isn't entirely from the cool water and air around her as it finishes echoing across the lake. The entire experience was far more than anyone but Chris was ready for, though Wolfe seems to be doing better than the rest of them. She watches him from afar, soft with Chris and then Jon, and she finds she needs one more dip beneath the surface to reset herself. It 'fixes' nothing, but it allows her to meet her mage's gaze with something closer to calm than the wild-eyed stare that would have been on her face before it.

She looks between his face and her clothes before slowly making her way out of the water. Again she shivers, arms crossing over her chest so she can rub her arms for a moment before reaching for her pants. It's only once she has them in hand that she realizes--

"I should shower before getting dressed." A beat. "And wash these clothes before I put them back on." Another beat. "Or... something else so Jon doesn't have to deal with my being naked."

A task, something tangible to do. Several somethings. That helps. Focusing on one thing at a time helps, though it's easy to be distracted from the task she set herself to when she actually looks at Wolfe and remembers she hasn't asked him how he is. She needs to know that he's all right after risking himself to save Jon.

"Are you all right, love?" She rests a chilled hand on his cheek. "When you stepped in for Jon, cast that spell, I was so worried. I'm glad you did, but..." Her lips tug into a small frown and her voice drops to a small murmur. "I know it's ridiculous, but I was so afraid I'd turn and find you gone."

Chris and Wolfe both try to offer some sort of comfort because they don't understand, and it just has Jon laughing harder still, tears tracing down his cheeks. He does hear Chris' words, feels Wolfe's hand and his departure. He can't stop, but he does turn to his boyfriend and wrap him in a tight hug, shoving his face into the other man's shoulder and jamming his glasses up against his own face.

The pain across the bridge of his nose and so near to his eyes is grounding and the laughter fades to sobs, then to heavy breathing after a minute or two. "She listened," he manages to say. "She listened to us, spoke to us. Chris, she's listened..."

The hug is a surprise, but not one Chris shies from. He meets how tightly Jon holds him, hoping the grip of his arms will offer some stability to his boyfriend.

It's only once Jon's muffled words come that the pieces come together. This was overwhelming in its own way, but one of manic relief. Compared to the Eye...what must the Raven Queen seem like?

He turns his face to press a kiss to Jon's hair but keeps him tightly pressed to his chest until he indicates he's had enough.

"She did. She will. This is a place of balance." He's said as much to Jon before, but his partner was one to take things with dubious suspicion until he saw it for himself. "The great and terrible, the wonderful things you want to discover are available to you, love...and it'll be a lot harder to be arbitrarily punished for it." He would be safe, as safe as Chris could make him.

"Something tells me you're not what has his attention right now, my love." He leaves off the part about not fathoming how as it doesn't feel appropriate, but it does cross his mind as he wraps his arms around her against the cold.

"I'm alright. I was worried too, to tell you the truth, but I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if harm had come to Jon because I left the area. I don't feel any different from casting, though. From speaking to a God, maybe, but not from the spell." There's soft humor in his tone, bewildered at having met an actual God. He's encountered false ones; Thedas' history is rife with self-proclaimed gods that were just powerful mages trying to grab for more. Even the Maker Wolfe has a sneaking suspicion was a mundane person once, if he wasn't just as story. The Nightmare was the closest being to a God that Wolfe ever came in actual contact with - not Corypheus, as he's sure that ancient magister would be rankled to know - but even that wasn't anything like being in the presence of the Raven Queen.

"What about you? Do you feel better after a dunk in the freezing lake?"

She relaxes a little as Wolfe pulls her close. He still feels like himself, and that helps when combined with his words. She hasn't lost him yet, doesn't have to turn and fight the gods or the world to get him back. Tranquility hasn't taken him, nor has the Raven Queen. He's here. He's safe. He's still hers.

Her eyes fall closed as she holds him, fingers pressing into his back gently. Weeks apart and it still feels natural to reach for him like this, even if the only thing she's seeking is reassurance that he's whole and still hers. "I'm glad you're safe," she murmurs into his shoulder. Her worries aren't all gone, but they can be set aside now that she's certain about his state of being.

The question posed to her is difficult to answer. 'Better' is a relative term and while she feels better than she did in the seconds after they returned, the truth is that she feels so much worse after their meeting with the Raven Queen. It's no one's fault but her own, and she doesn't know how to talk about that. She doesn't know if she wants to yet.

"No, but I feel more settled. I don't feel the need to run off into the woods for a time." That's better, at least? She sighs softly and buries her nose against his chest. "I'm not all right after that. I don't know when I will be or when I'll be able to speak about it. I know I need to, but what She said..."

Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty. But who is she?

Her fingertips grip harder at him. "I wish I had the certainty that her name for you gave. You are a man of love." And she's just a copy, a shadow. Nothing.

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