Her temples throbbed, the pulse of blood through her veins pressing against her skill.
Carissa opened her eyes, blinking to clear them. She was lying on a bed, sinking into its thick maroon blanket. There was a wooden vanity against the wall, and two chairs situated next to the door. Carissa rose, the floorboards groaning beneath her bare feet, and tried the door. Locked.
Where was she?
Her last memory slowly trickled back to her. The Y’thapa. She’d chosen to take the Y’thapa. Now she was in the Reaper’s fortress. She scrubbed her hand across her forehead. She remembered a few things: riding on a horse, dark forests, black tents, blurry silhouettes. The last few days felt like a dream, their details vague and wispy. The harder she tried to grasp them, the more quickly they slipped through her fingers.
Elon. She had to find Elon.
Carissa began to try the doorknob again. To her surprise, it twisted before her hand could reach it. She stepped back as the door swung inwards, and a woman entered. She was willowy and thin, hollows carved beneath her cheekbones.
Carissa studied her garb. A servant. But one she’d never seen before. “Why are you here?”
The servant had the most defined black eyebrows Carissa had ever seen. They rose, their jagged edges growing sharper. “To prepare you for the welcoming feast. Did they not tell you?”
The welcoming feast. The rebellion.
The fogginess in Carissa’s mind dissipated. “Of course. Should I sit?”