The trees twisted like drunk dancers — not that Judge had ever seen a drunk dancer up close, but if he had, he imagined this forest nailed the vibe.
The branches bent in impossible angles, and the canopy above let in streaks of iridescent light that flickered like faulty glow sticks at a rave for hallucinating moths. Some of the vines sparkled like they were dipped in glitter and then dipped again in radioactive despair.
Judge walked, and sometimes ran, Golden Eagle strapped behind him, sword at his side, panting but determined. His boots thudded against moss-covered roots that had all the tripping hazard energy of a prankster gremlin. He had one goal: catch up to Eleyn. His mother.
His terrifying, reality-bending, emotionally constipated mother who made fire look like a shy candle. And he had to do this before she reached whoever offed his master's husband.
