Where was the man who had escaped from the Witch’s Hammer? He’d come with her. She was certain he had. Where—?

He lay near her, the wounds on his neck and chest making her stomach churn. Something vicious and terrible had killed him. A fast kill. A recent kill.

Fear got her to her feet, got her stumbling toward the dark horse. He snorted. Took a step back as she approached, then, trembling, held his ground.

“Easy, boy. Easy.” Why was he afraid of her?

She raised her hand to give him a caress and pat.

The hand that lifted out of the fog was dark, leathery, had sharp, blood-smeared talons at the ends of its fingers.

She wept silently as she stared at the hand of the enemy from her dreams.

Quiet conversations died in his wake as Adolfo walked through the camp and entered his tent, followed by fearful whispers.

He was still thirsty, but the wine held no appeal. And his sides itched, irritated by the cloth rubbing against it. He raised his hand to pull open the tunic’s lacings…and stared, fascinated, at the skin that was turning darker, rougher, even as he watched. Stared at the nails folding in on themselves until they began to look like talons.

A hesitant scratching on the tent flap.

“What is it?” His voice sounded rough, raspy—not the smooth deep voice that had persuaded hundreds of men to help him reshape the world as he wanted it to be.

An Inquisitor stepped into the tent. “Master Adolfo? Is there something we can do for you? Is there something you need?”

Fresh meat. Hot blood. Everything he needed was standing within reach.

No. Not his own men. Not when there was prey close by. “Do we have other prisoners?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Bring two of them to me. It doesn’t matter which two.” He turned around to face the Inquisitor. He smiled as he watched the man’s face turn deathly pale. Deathly pale. The thought amused him. The fool had no idea how close to deathly pale he had been.

“Y-yes, Master,” the Inquisitor stammered.

As the man fled from the tent, Adolfo looked at the glorious talons at the end of his right hand and laughed.

Two ghosts standing next to bodies still locked in the embrace of the fight that had killed them.

Morag slid off the dark horse, moved toward the ghosts, then stopped. No. She couldn’t gather them, couldn’t take them up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She was sick, hurt, exhausted. She had to find Ashk. Mother’s mercy, she had to find Ashk, had to…

The meat was already spoiled from the heat of the day, the blood already too clotted and thick. But the best part of the feast remained.

Where were the ghosts? Where were the spirits she’d seen a moment ago?

She backed away from the bodies, shaking her head.