Cry of the Ghost Wolf

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The candle in the middle of the floor guttered, drowning in its own wax. Soon the flame would die, plunging the stone chamber into absolute blackness. Dim as the light was, though, Argalath could not bear to look at it. Its meager glow stabbed into the back of his skull like hot needles. It had been a long day, fraught with effort, and his strength was failing him. Despite the power that burned inside him, his body would have to rest soon.

He sat cross-legged on the stone floor. He must hold the power in check. But it was more of a struggle with each moment. If she didn’t return soon …

When Jagun Ghen had first possessed Argalath, joining with him at the most elemental level, it had felt like riding the back of a dragon-lord and master of all he desired. Argalath could do so much more now. The price he paid had been worth it. But over the years, he had begun to suspect that the power was consuming him, like the wick’s fire ate away the candle wax., Each time he allowed Jagun Ghen to bleed through, it left Argalath feeling like a burst wineskin. And the distinction between them … he wasn’t sure it was there anymore. He and the thing of flame and hunger had become one, and darkness was his lone comfort from the burning. Only in darkness could Argalath touch the last of his humanity. He looked down at his hands in his lap. They were shaking like those of an old man.

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