Trace groaned. Or the thought he did. No sound came from his lips.
That was strange.
He opened his eyes and looked down to take stock of himself… and there was nothing there.
The first possibility that occurred to him was that he had died.
Trace must be a ghost!
His heart pinched in fear, then in anger. Where was Anaisa? Was she also dead? Had the Emperor succeeded and killed them all?
Movement around his belly made him suddenly cognizant of his positioning. He was hanging sort of upside-down, as if slung over the back of someone's shoulders. Something invisible gripped his nonexistent arm.
He frowned. From the war, he knew of men who had lost a limb and still claimed to feel it. Was that similar to what was happening to him now?
The room was familiar. Too familiar. The bedspread passing beneath him as he was apparently carried was that of the Emperor Wight.
