Dawn is breaking, but where she is no ray of sunshine will ever fall upon her face.
The door opens with a creak and from the distance blood-curling screams of agony and sheer despair enter the sparely lit room like uninvited guests.
Her chin rests against her breastbone, each breath she takes is shallow and rather painful.
Blue eyes are tired, eyelids are heavy and swollen.
If she just keeps them closed she might stay in her perfect little bubble a little while longer,
where she‘s not stripped down to her underthings and hanging on a hook like a pig in the slaughterhouse.
In a wondrous dream where no bruises adorn her pale skin like a morbid, inscrutable painting.
In a world where she‘s not the very last of her kind. As long the Mother Confessor‘s pure heart beats... Her heart isn‘t pure anymore.
The traitorous voice in her mind pulls her back ever so often, especially when she drifts further away to rather carefree days of her life.
These memories from past ages seem millennia ago, speaking to her in the languages of ancient times.
It is hard to tell how much time has truly passed, but Kahlan can feel herself slowly fading away.
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