Her pale skin was no match for the blazing Caeliran sun overhead. It felt like she was baking. She tried to focus, to keep her boundaries, search out a trustworthy soul, and keep it all hidden from the Stormlord, but her ability to concentrate deteriorated rapidly.

The first day, she had done so much thinking, so much worrying, but now she tired so quickly. She slept more often than she was awake. Dark spots marred her vision, and hunger had turned her belly into a gnawing, rumbling beast. Every moment she felt on the verge of tears, but she was fairly certain there was not enough liquid left in her to cry. She recognized the signs of dehydration from her first tangle with Zephyr, only this time the symptoms did not come on suddenly. They overtook her slowly, making her jealous of the quick misery she had experienced at the water witch’s hands.

It was the helplessness that was the most maddening. She could not scratch an itch or adjust her position when her body ached or avoid the sun blazing overhead when her head pounded. She tried to force her mind to go somewhere else, to forget about the pain and thirst and hunger, but the constant hum of spirits around her was too distracting. She worried if she let herself get lost, she might never find her way back. So she lived with the pain, every single moment.

She never would have expected to yearn for the Stormlord’s appearance, but she did sometimes. He was rarely at camp, and when he was, he still was not entirely with her. He existed in a reality she could not see; he interacted constantly with the souls around him, but he was so much more skilled than she that he blocked her from hearing any of it. Then he would march off with a determined look in his eyes, and she never knew how long he would be gone. The first time, he left her for nearly two full days.

She had still been aware and rational enough then to worry about all the things that could go wrong in his absence. She was easy prey for any animal that wanted to wander along. If a natural storm occurred, she would have no way to seek cover, no way to protect herself at all. The sheer madness of not being able to swat away bugs that landed on her eyes and nose made her want to scream and beg for his return. Maybe she did, mentally, and she did not even realize it, because he came again not long after that. His clothes had been smeared with blood, and he had not even bothered to look at her. He simply trudged straight past her and into the river to bathe.