The voice in Marius's head was not a suggestion. It was a promise. A dark, soothing balm offered to a soul raw with grief.
He could feel its energy, a tendril of pure, ancient darkness coiling around his shattered spirit. It wanted in. He could feel its presence, waiting just beyond the veil of his consciousness.
A sharp, searing pain shot through him. Marius fought it, his own will a desperate, flickering candle against a hurricane. He resisted.
Then, the memories came. Not as fleeting thoughts, but as vivid, living moments.
He saw Martha in their garden, her hands covered in dirt, laughing as she held up a misshapen carrot.
He saw her in the kitchen, a smudge of flour on her nose, scolding him for trying to steal a taste.
He saw her anger, her face flushed after he'd gotten into a duel at the academy, her hand smacking the back of his head before she tended to his wounds.
