They are like knives raining down on his body. The terrible pain would be enough to petrify one man, but Moulin persisted. What was this ache in his heart? It was tearing his insides into pieces—a spear twisting in through his ribs. A colony of ants gnawing on his heart. The youth could imagine anything that could describe what he was feeling, but it never seemed to be enough. It was more. The voices were pleading and begging for something Moulin neither could discern nor give. They were stubborn, ringing inside his head like echoing bells. Moulin almost wanted to split his head open.
Colahn approached the youth beside him, noticing the pained expression on the young man's face. Worry instantly filled the seer, and he supported Moulin, who was staggering. "Young master? What's wrong?"
"Make it stop..." Moulin spoke hoarsely, clenching his jaw and his hands covered his ears. However, it was useless. They were louder.
