TAVRIC
It's been only a couple of hours since I last saw her—glowing, transformed, magnificent—and now she looks like a shell of herself.
Her eyes are sunken, shadowed by a deep exhaustion that makes my chest tighten. Her hair, which usually catches the light like something living, has lost its shine entirely. Even her skin seems paler than before, her lips dry and flaking from dehydration.
Captivity does no one any good, but it is worse on her. If Amara hadn't assured me—after a thorough examination with that magic brush of hers—that Lucy's essence was still intact, I would have feared the worst.
She looks sick. And I hate it.
I hate it so much it sits in my chest like something with teeth. I hate that she was in that hole while I stood in her room like a fool, destroying furniture and bleeding onto her walls.
