Darkness was not a void; it was a weight. It pressed against Amara's eyelids, heavy as the mountain shale she had felt beneath her boots in the Vale. At first, there was no thought, only sensation. The world was a rhythmic, artificial pulse, thrum, thrum, thrum, that lacked the organic heat of the forest or the heavy, velvet scent of the Dravik estate.
In her mind, she was still in the smoke. She was still reaching for Darien, her fingers brushing the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket before the white light of the flash-bang swallowed him whole. In the fever dream of her unconsciousness, the scene played on a loop. She saw him collapse, saw the blood leak from his mouth, and felt the agonizing pull of the Mark on her neck.
The mark was the only thing that felt real. It burned. It wasn't the warm, possessive hum she was used to; it was a jagged, electric sting. It felt as though someone were prodding a raw nerve with a needle made of ice.
