Blood pooled in Rymora's mouth like molten metal. Thick, warm, and coppery. Her entire body trembled from the impact—her back still screamed from where it had slammed against the stone wall, and her left arm hung at her side uselessly, every movement jabbing white-hot pain through her shoulder.
She couldn't lift her head. Couldn't speak.
All she could do was write.
With her good hand wrapped tightly around the quill, Rymora scrawled words onto the parchment as fast as her battered body would allow. Her brown eyes blurred with tears, but she blinked furiously and forced herself to focus. If she faltered now—if she stopped—Zyren wouldn't hesitate to remind her of what he could do.
