“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she lied.
“Good.”
Without thinking, she placed her palm over his wounded arm, and hummed gently. Morgan watched with great interest as a soft light shuddered between her fingers until she brought her hand away. The wound had closed.
Morgan’s face filled with wonder. “A miracle,” he said.
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“No,” she mumbled. “Only a Kelthi.”
“Even now, you keep something of yourself no one can take.”
Lain didn’t answer. She closed her eyes, listening to the silence between their breaths. The song is not the words. Through the faint hum of their bond she felt something like gratitude, but buried deep beneath his composure was another current, dark and cold, that echoed of a will so vast it made her ache to touch it.
It reminded her of the wyrm. She took comfort in that thought.
Before sleep took her, she whispered, “The Underserpent will be free.”
Morgan’s reply came like a prayer breathed into her hair. “Yes, my saint. And when it wakes, the world will know our names.”