Although she cannot explain, Yorda must keep moving.
She has never heard whatever tongue he speaks. Yet, somehow, she knows even that would be useless. There is no telling the force that chases her steps, not with a voice, for it is a natural law – it brushes against her bare soles like a wave, and its fingers creep up her ankles as soon as she stands still long enough.
She finds it hard to walk, when her feet are glued to the ground.
He does not need lecturing on the consequences, that is for sure. Since the third flood of guardians, he has never left her hand. It pains her to pressure him so, but there is no remedy – as long as she touches the floor, they are always going to find her.
The effort drains her in a way she has never experienced. It was so different below, in the dark cradle of the palace she was born in – she lived in the shade of black velvet, alone and protected, as her mother spoke of this world coldly. In her words, it was a realm full of nothi