Avel held me upright, but barely. My limbs shook uncontrollably. My breath came in sharp, stuttering gasps. My vision blurred at the edges, pulsing with the rhythm of my heartbeat. “Avel,” I choked, gripping his coat, “something’s wrong—I can’t—I can’t stop it—” “I know,” he whispered, voice raw, “just breathe, Lyria—hold onto me—” But breathing did nothing. The hunger rose too fast. Too strong. Like it had been waiting for this moment. My fingers curled into Avel’s chest, not from choice but instinct—searching, reaching, needing. His eyes widened. “No,” he whispered, cupping my face gently but firmly. “Lyria, listen to me—this is not your fault—look at me—just me—" But Caelan’s last words still echoed in the stone: He will devour you too. The tunnel spun. Avel’s touch steadied me but also fed the hunger. His scent. His warmth. His pulse. A pressure bloomed along my gums, subtle at first, like a change in weather felt through bone. Heat gathered behind my teeth,
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