TYSHA
The eastern tower smelled like dust and old prayers.
Tysha hated it. She hated the narrow windows that let in nothing but grey light, hated the cold stone bench pressing into her spine, hated the way the walls seemed to close in tighter every time another explosion shook the foundations beneath them.
But most of all, she hated the sound her mother was making.
Sirenyth sat on the floor—the floor—her red hair tangled and wild around her face, her silk gown torn at the hem where she'd caught it on the stairwell during their frantic climb. She wasn't crying. Not exactly. The sound coming from her throat was something older than tears. Something animal. A keening that scraped along Tysha's ribs like a dull blade.
"Mother." Tysha knelt beside her, gripping her shoulders. "Mother, you need to breathe."
