KYLAR
The Prophet is terrified of us.
Her fear, and that of the other human with her, flood the building, leaving the air acrid and bitter. No one complains—many of us thrive on the scent of fear—but it drives me half-mad with frustration.
"That cannot be the Prophet," Nira insists. Her earlier compassion for the humans seems to have disappeared after this night. "It can't even talk to us."
"She is the Prophet." Leaving the conversation at that, I ignore my third-in-command's complaints as I grab one of the larger furs. It's enough for both humans to use in this cold.
They both seem unable to maintain their core body temperature in this weather, yet another in the long list of human weaknesses. It's no wonder they didn't survive in our world.
The Prophet flinches as I approach with the fur. Her heart pounds so hard, I can hear its frantic rhythm from across the room. Such a delicate thing. Such a weak vessel for so much power.
