An excerpt from Chapter 2:
Nardus navigated through the dark, narrow passage quickly, dragging his hands along its rough rock walls for guidance and balance. The skin of his palms had long since snagged and torn against the sharp rocks, wearing through decades of callouses. They’d morphed into seeping wounds.
His hands sucked up bits of rock and dust from the walls, trapping them like bugs in spiderwebs within the congealing blood oozing from his open wounds. He trudged on with little thought of it. He preferred the superficial flesh wounds to the excruciating, drawn-out death he’d face were he to fail. The wounds kept his mind sharp and focused anyway, and that would keep him alive.
His mind fixed on one task: finding the Ƨʈōn ef Dädh.
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