Amaya's lips stayed pressed against my skin, drinking my blood with quiet gulps. Her fangs stung, but the pain was distant—muted compared to the storm raging in my head. The moment her mouth touched me, the flood began: visions, memories, lives that weren't mine yet clawed their way through my skull.
It started with Elizabeth, strangely enough. Perhaps because she had been the last vessel of my time. But her image fractured like glass, and when the shards reformed, I was staring into another memory—Amaya's.
She was young, small, fragile. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she knelt before the lifeless body of a woman—her mother. The air stank of blood and smoke. Before she could even grieve, armored knights seized her by the arms and began to drag her away. Her thin wrists flailed, her little body resisting with every ounce of strength she had left.
Behind them, I noticed a figure. White hair, eyes cold as frost.
He must be Rucain.
Somehow I knew it was him.
