The ship rocked gently beneath me as I braced myself against the wall of the small cabin. Even that slight movement made my head spin. Every part of me ached—muscles, bones, and most of all, my heart. The void where my bond with Rhys had been felt like an open wound, raw and bleeding.
"Sera, please sit down before you fall," Lyra pleaded, her doctor voice mixing with sisterly concern. "You're still recovering from the ritual."
"We're almost at the dock," I said, ignoring her outstretched hand. "I need to be ready."
The truth was I couldn't sit still. Couldn't rest. Not when every moment without my connection to my son felt like drowning. Not when war consumed the land we were approaching. Not when something inside me pulled me forward with such urgency that it overrode even my physical weakness.
I pressed my palm against my flat stomach, searching for any sensation, any hint of Rhys. Nothing.
