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The vines can’t take everything from Chigda.
It had been a long time since a Faewish Sprite’s voice wafted over the treetop platform. Chigda leant back against the aging wood of his deathbed, shutting his useless eyes as he listened to the careful, lilting tones. Avicinda’s singing was imperfect to his choir-trained ears, but it soothed the lingering aches of his illness more than any Whim had prior to the vines, as much as it washed away the unending turmoil of his mind.
Every day, the vines took more and more from him.
But only him. They could never take from him this final lifeline—Avicinda’s voice.
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