Marked By Hell
When she spoke, her voice was so small it barely seemed to belong to her.
“If I do this,” she whispered, “you don’t let me go.”
“No,” Malachor said, without hesitation. “I do not.”
Elizabeth’s chest heaved. Another cough rose and she swallowed it down, tasting blood and bitterness.
Her body was failing.
Her village was gone.
Her God was silent.
She opened her eyes.
Malachor’s were waiting.
Elizabeth leaned forward, slow and trembling, and placed her mouth to the edge of his palm.
The moment before she drank, she hesitated—one final, fragile pause where the old world still tried to claim her.
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