Raindrops drummed against the windowpane in a steady rhythm. The cocoon under the blanket was so deliciously warm. She was hovering in that peaceful plane, somewhere between waking and slumbering. Where all cares are forgotten, and the senses drift lightly between what is real and what is fancied. 

I write as though to a friend, though it is only to myself. I had never thought of writing in a journal until now, but it seems as my new life begins, I ought best to chronicle it. For whom, I cannot say, other than myself.

This spectre in this strange place; this chilling narrator that he knew certainly was another form of torture; this voice that echoed off of stone walls and into his head, shaking around inside of him until his very bones rattled with the icy cold of fear. 

Finchley stepped into the Hall of Journeys within the House of Three Graces where everyone had assembled, making plans for their upcoming journey and talking in hushed whispers. In her hands was a small burlap bag weighted down by the contents within. She leaned against the side of the doorway and set the bag on the floor in front of her quietly, not wanting to interrupt anyone just yet.

Xanderian slowly walked up the hillside to the mirror, an overcast twilight quickly descending over Tol Lochul. She knew this was where Addie had retreated to. As soon as she saw her distinctive yellow hair against the darkening sky, she raised her voice. “Hail, sweet sister.”