the arched ceiling. A lick of greenish flame
danced within. Not a flame of this world.
Its light slid over the heap of black stone in
the center of the room. Pieces of a
sarcophagus.
And all around it, built into shelves carved
from the mountain itself, gleamed Wyrdstone
collars.
Only the instincts of his small,
inconsequential body kept Dorian in the air.
Kept him circling the lightless chamber. The
rubble in the center of the space.
Erawan’s tomb—directly beneath Morath.
The site where Elena and Gavin trapped him,
and then built the keep atop the sarcophagus
that could not be moved.
Where all this mess had begun. Where,
centuries later, his father had claimed he and
Perrington ventured in their youth, using the