Elion's hand wrapped firmly around mine as we walked toward the courtyard, just as Mr. Asher had commanded.
His grip was steady. Warm. Grounding, like an anchor in the middle of a raging storm.
But I barely felt it.
At some point along the way, I had simply… stopped caring about anything beyond the single, terrifying, suffocating certainty that had taken root deep inside my chest and refused to let go.
My death had already been predicted.
Out of the seven or eight of us who were supposed to enter Morvalis… I was the most likely one to die.
The weakest variable. The easiest loss. The most expendable piece on whatever cruel board the universe had decided to play this game on.
The realization sat like a lead weight in my chest, pressing down on my lungs until every breath felt like a deliberate, exhausting effort. It made the world around me feel distant, muffled, as though I were already walking through the first stages of fading away.
