Pharazon opened his eyes to cold daylight. Above him stretched tangled, budding tree branches, and past them a cloudy sky. He had no idea what he was doing lying on a muddy forest floor. Where was he? Not home—these were not the cypresses and olive trees of his Altador, but oaks and birches of a more temperate climate.
Like the Meridell region.
Everything came back to him like a sock in the gut and he sat up from the shock, earning himself a head rush. Celice lay nearby – breathing, thank goodness – sprawled awkwardly across dead leaves, her hair and clothes in disarray.
But Pharazon had gotten them away from the Dark Faerie Sisters—for a price. As he picked himself up, he felt woozy and weak, like he’d gone days without sleeping or eating. His body seemed hollow, and he knew he’d exhausted his magical reservoirs.