She turned away from him. Walked to the window. Looked out at the darkening sky and the distant line of campfires that marked Dhaelon's army — hundreds of them, perfectly spaced, perfectly still, like stars that had fallen in the wrong direction.
"He whispers to me," she said. "Not screams. Not commands. Whispers. Soft ones. The kind that sound like your own thoughts if you're not paying attention. He slips in between the cracks — when I'm tired, when I'm angry, when I'm scared. Especially when I'm scared."
She pressed her fingers against the cold glass.
"He told me things about you. About your family. About the war and the throne and the dragons. Things I shouldn't know. Things that turned out to be true. And every time one of his whispers proved right, it got harder to shut him out, because my mind started treating his voice like — like a friend. Like someone I could trust."
