The water of the River of the World was cold.
It was a deep structural cold that existed independently of temperature. Damian crouched at the bank and pressed his fingers into it and heard them immediately.
Voices.
Sounds that had once been voices and had been in the River long enough to forget what words were for, pressing against his Primeval senses with the desperation of things that recognized a living presence and reached toward it.
They came from everywhere in the water simultaneously, layered over each other until they became a texture rather than individual sounds.
He pulled his hand back.
His eyes shone with surprise he hadn't anticipated feeling.
Beside him, Serala floated over the water rather than touching the bank, her white-gold and verdant wings spread, and she reached down and let her fingers brush the River's surface with careful attention.
