There were a thousand things I missed about having a functioning body.
Walking, for instance. Or breathing without feeling like the air was borrowed. Or scratching my nose, which, by the way, had been itchy for two hours now and was starting to feel like a personal attack from the universe.
But the worst part?
Having to listen to Azael monologue while I lay on the cold, cursed floor like an undercooked pancake.
She was pacing now back and forth, back and forth heels clicking on the obsidian stone like the ticking of some infernal clock. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even roll my eyes, which I had never appreciated enough when I could.
"You see, Liria," she said, her voice calm in the same way venom dripped from fangs slow, patient, fatal, "heroes are tragically predictable. All that light and hope and self-righteous belief that everyone can be saved. It's almost charming. Almost."
