But was it truly her soul? It seemed only a fragment somehow, a sliver of her, dancing with light. A little baby mithril-head trout, with her knowing eyes staring back at me, nuzzling the wolf-fur that covered my palm. Mist seeped away into the pelt and dripped back down into the mire. Any piece of her was worth enduring this trial.
The fish-fragment shimmered and thrashed in my hood, and then it was her, all of her, standing as tall as she ever did, poised as if to run on the edge of a land abhorrent to her nature, her golden her in a long braid, her gray (...)
