It’s warm.
Nalvanka holds long, clawed fingers to the fire, a little too close. The skin
begins to ooze, pearling up with translucent fluid before it slips down across
her palm, tickles the skin of her wrist before hitting the tiled floor.
Is it? She can feel it. She knows she can feel it, because there’s pain running
along the fingers she’s burning, the smell of sizzling flesh as smoke curls,
and she can smell it in her nostrils, it’s faint but it’s there between the
blood. With a thump she sits back and holds her burned hand to her face,
studying it. The dull ache, the buzz that has always permeated her mind, is it going away? Flashes of a skull, black eyes, hollow eyes. Hidden. Someone
call her ma’am-
But they do that, here. She’s the matriarch. They bow. People like to bow, and
their eyes follow to Koschei afterwards, because he’ll break their fingers if
they don’t acknowledge him.
Does that happen? Did that happen?
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