As the nightmare closed in, Eiravyne's breaking mind reached out blindly in the dark, clinging to the only warmth it had ever known.
She retreated deep inward, burying her consciousness beneath phantom memories of Urag in the quiet depths of Quastrax.
She sought the grounding, honest scent of herbs that had always clung to his clothes.
She remembered the quiet, simple comfort of sleeping beside him, the gentle way he would pull her into his arms to shield her from the drafts.
They were cuddles born from survival and later by a quiet devotion, not conquest.
She remembered his soft smiles that only belonged to her, and the light showers of gentle kisses he used to press against her forehead and knuckles and cheeks, completely untainted by malice, and entirely incapable of feeling like the horrific violation crushing her now.
The contrast was too vast. The tragedy was too total.
The wall of ice she had built around her mind collapsed into sharp, jagged splinters.
