By the time the high sun hit the curtained window, my throat felt like sandpaper. The harsh, rolling syllables of the ancient language had worn my voice down to a rasp, and a loud, aggressive growl echoed from my stomach, breaking the heavy silence of the room.
I ignored the hunger, keeping my eyes glued to the jagged ink on the parchment. Anha vazhak yeraanth, I repeated in my head, burning every sharp line and inflection into my memory. I wasn't just practicing; I was memorizing the entire sequence so I could recount it to Eloise. If anyone could translate these words and find a hidden trap within the ritual, it was her.
Earlier, I had tried to slip a question past his guard. "What does this line actually translate to?" I had asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
Malakai had only
