And Rosal Monserrat is standing on the shore of a beach in an unknown land, in the night and the moonlight, with ocean sounds all around her, and a dull low stony fortress rising up before her, the kind of unornamented fortress that you put up when it's expected to have only military uses somewhere that it needs to impress nobody.

Her hand is no longer on fire, but pain still radiates up from it, the unhealed burn.

And Rosal Monserrat is standing on the shore of a beach in an unknown land, in the night and the moonlight, with ocean sounds all around her, and a dull low stony fortress rising up before her, the kind of unornamented fortress that you put up when it's expected to have only military uses somewhere that it needs to impress nobody.

Her hand is no longer on fire, but pain still radiates up from it, the unhealed burn.

"This - doesn't look like Hell?  And who's that?"

And Rosal Monserrat is standing on the shore of a beach in an unknown land, in the night and the moonlight, with ocean sounds all around her, and a dull low stony fortress rising up before her, the kind of unornamented fortress that you put up when it's expected to have only military uses somewhere that it needs to impress nobody.

Pain still radiates up from her hand.

"This - doesn't look like Hell?  And who's that?"

And Rosal Monserrat is standing on the shore of a beach in an unknown land, in the night and the moonlight, with ocean sounds all around her, and a dull low stony fortress rising up before her.  The kind of unornamented fortress that you put up when it's expected to have only military uses somewhere that it needs to impress nobody.

Pain still radiates up from her hand.

"This - doesn't look like Hell?  And who's that?"