Hate beat a steady pulse in Caolinn’s head, a hammer blow against the inside of her skull blanking out all other thought. It wasn’t directed at the asura, nor even the Inquest, but was an amorphous, formless thing. Pain had been directed against her people here, in this dark place, and that was enough to swell an answering darkness in her flesh.
There was fear, too. When she’d plunged the dormitory into shadow and turned to run, nothing but instinct had guided her. Perhaps there was some fragile tendril of shared memory resurfacing in her mind, a remnant of the Dream – or perhaps it was nothing but the aura of that room, the darkness and old blood and death.