.17.
Look at me, the Boov soul urge desperately, its voice a mere whisper in the night, careful not to wake the others. She refuses through clenched teeth, staring stubbornly into the darkness and locking gazes with the mocking evil. The soul walks in front of her, seeking for her gaze, for her green eyes. It asks why but she finds that she cannot answer.
I am already too attached, she does not say. I cannot become more. Her mouth refuses to form the words, voice stuck in her throat.
She gets up, tightens her hold on the lantern and tells the soul to go to sleep.
It does.