Ishara stared at him, her lips trembling, completely motionless beneath the cold blue light of her cage. The chains hung heavy and silent in her lap, their soft hum flickering like a dying candle. For the first time since Sylas had dragged her in iron from the South, the Witch of the West had nothing left to say.
Sylas rose smoothly to his full height, dusting an invisible speck of dirt from his dark wolf-pelt coat. He offered the silent witch one final, lingering look—a farmer observing a blighted crop—before turning on his heel and walking toward the heavy iron door.
He pushed the handle down. The ancient hinges groaned in protest, letting in a rush of slightly warmer air from the outer corridor.
"Lord Sylas."
The raspy whisper was barely audible above the scrape of the iron door against the stone floor. Sylas stopped, his hand resting on the heavy latch, but he did not turn his head.
