the tip of your tongue, the top of your lungs
As a boy I travelled with a troupe of actors through the free cities. One day in Myr, a certain man made my master an offer too tempting to refuse. I feared the man meant to use me ad I’d heard some men used small boys. But what he wanted was far worse. He gave me a potion that made me powerless to move or speak, yet did nothing to dull my senses. With a hooked blade he sliced me, root and stem, chanting all the while. He burned my parts in a brazier. The flames turned blue and I heard a voice answer his call. I still dream of that night. Not of the sorcerer, not of his blade. I dream of the voice from the flames.