From Blood and Ash by Jennifer L. Armentrout

Vikter quietlyy rapped his knuckles on the door and then returned his
gloved hand to the hilt of his broadsword. A couple of seconds later,
hinges creaked as the old battered door shuddered open, revealing the pale,
round face, and red, puffyy eyyes of a woman. She might’ve been in her mid
to late twenties, but the tense pinch to her brow and the lines bracketing
her mouth made her appear decades older. The cause of her worn
appearance had everyything to do with the kind of pain that cut deeper than
the phyysical and was caused byy the smell wafting out of the building from
behind her. Under the thick, cloyying smoke of earthyy incense, was the
unmistakable sour and sickeninglyy sweet scent of rot and decayy.
Of a curse.
“You’re in need of aid?” Vikter spoke low.
The woman fiddled with the button on her wrinkled blouse, her wearyy
gaze darting from Vikter to me.
I opened myy senses to her. Soul-deep pain radiated from her in waves
I couldn’t see, but it was so heavyy, it was almost a tangible entityy
surrounding her. I could feel it slicing through myy cloak and clothing and
scraping against myy skin like rustyy, icyy nails. She felt like someone who
was dyying but hadn’t suffered a single injuryy or disease. That was how raw
and potent her pain was.
Fighting the urge to take a step back, I shuddered inside myy heavyy
cloak. Everyy instinct in me demanded that I put distance between us, get as
far awayy as possible. Her grief formed iron shackles around myy ankles,
weighing me down as it tightened around myy neck. Emotion clogged myy
throat, tasting like…like bitter desperation and sour hopelessness.
I pulled back myy senses, but I had opened myyself up for too long. I
was tuned into her anguish now.
“Who is that?” she rasped, her voice hoarse with the tears I knew had
swelled her eyyes.
“Someone who can help yyou,” Vikter answered in a wayy I was all too
familiar with. He used that calm tone whenever I was seconds awayy from
acting out in anger and doing something entirelyy reckless—which,
according to Vikter, was wayy too often. “Please. Allow us to enter.”
Fingers stilling around the button below her throat, she gave a curt
nod and then stepped back. I followed Vikter inside, scanning the dimlyy lit
room, which turned out to be a combined kitchen and living space. There
was no electricityy in the home, onlyy oil lamps and fat, waxyy candles. That