Swift fox feet found their way across the sand, leaving the chaotic corpse of Khadje Kholam far behind. The Holder’s grip was far too tight; there was no stopping what was to come. He had his Vessel and he had his army. Even if neither of those things had come to pass, he would still have accomplished his goal, for he still had the one thing that could have prevented all of this, and the one thing that had been his gift to the woman he loved—if he was indeed even capable of love. And Yelto had mocked her with it by keeping it just out of her reach.
The Wolfblade.
That simple piece of steel that was forged with a single drop of blood from both the Holder and the Ghost to bond them together as a symbol of their promise. It was the only thing she could think of to stop him, and she knew of only one way to get his attention: she would have to bring him to her.
As the wind-whipped dunes of the Waste spread out before her, Asha Imha-khet raised her eyes toward Do’baradai, the city that held the Holder’s tomb—and, inside it, the Vessel he had once called his own.
The sun was sinking, and the Ghost hoped it would not be forever.
For, now, the Days of the Dark were upon them.