Weeks turned into days within the endless fogs of Aethelgard. Each morning was the same to Kairen – not by the sun, which remained a soft haze behind the turmoil-shrouded veil, but by the constant, pounding thrum of the great waterfall.
He sat on the slick, wet rock Vanamali had directed him to, legs crossed, eyes closed, trying to obey the Sage's apparently impossible instruction: hear a solitary drop amidst the cascade.
It was like madness. The sound wasn't just loud; it was a sensory thing. It was perceived through the rock beneath him, vibrated in his bones, resonated in his head with no room for thought, only the suffocating, mad life of falling water.
His brain fought, a wild counterpoint to the external noise. Mom. Is she okay? Did Lia get up? Dain… Ilya… are they okay? Guilt twisted in his stomach, unyielding and bitter. He ought to be there. He ought to be training like Dain, fighting, getting ready. Not. listening to water.
