Submission is Not My Style
For a fleeting second, hope claws at me—maybe the guard was wrong, maybe he’s only resting, maybe—
But then I see his eyes.
Not the emerald green I share with him, not the fierce fire I grew up both fearing and yearning for. His eyes are white. Empty. A ghost’s stare. Dark smoke coils around his head like a crown of poison. His skin is pale, stretched thin, the color of ash.
“No…” My voice cracks in the air, raw and desperate.
Beside me, Jack whispers, grief rough in his throat. “I think his soul left his body.”
The words rip me apart. I scream, stumbling forward, reaching for him—but Jack’s arms lock around my waist, dragging me back against his chest.
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