It is a universal truth, seldom acknowledged in heroic ballads, that redemption is less about dramatic confessions and more about being wrenched from sleep at an hour so ungodly it makes demons repent. I learned this the hard way specifically, at the hands (and horns) of Daena.
My dreams had just reached that rare state of bliss: a sprawling library, Enara laughing, Ananara performing interpretive dance atop a pile of law books. And then doom. A bellow that could peel paint.
"Liria. Up. Now."
I shot upright so violently I nearly headbutted Daena. She caught me by the scruff of my nightshirt, eyes flashing with the satisfaction of a woman who'd waited two years to drag her adoptive granddaughter out of bed. The sun, traitorous wretch that it is, hadn't even bothered to rise yet.
"Time to atone for your sins," Daena said, with an energy I could only describe as "apocalyptic PE teacher." "Today you work. The old-fashioned way."
