The Silent ticking of time in the Castle drifted like the relentless snow piled against the walls.
For the twins, the months were not marked by the sun-which rarely pierced the violet gloom of the NorthwestTerritory but by the slow, agonizing transformation of the half-dead body lying in the North Tower.
In the first month, the deep, angry purples and blacks that had mottled Zaliyah's skin faded into a sickly, bruised yellow. Every time Iruna wiped his skin with warm water, she felt the ridges of the internal fractures beginning to knit back together.
His breathing remained shallow, a pitiful sound that was the only thing keeping the twins from falling into total despair.
