Page 276 of Emylia

Not the kind that screamed.

The kind that folded. That sank. That swallowed.

Stephanie.

What was left of her.

Blood soaked her small frame.

The delicate slope of her throat had been torn open—crimson painting her from chin to toes.

A gouge—so deep, so wrong—split her stomach wide.

Entrails spilled through the tear as if her body had tried to purge the violence done to it.

Then the stench hit.

Acrid. Rancid.

Ruptured intestine.

Decaying flesh.

I gagged. Choked. The bile climbed high—but I swallowed it down.

I made myself.

Because she deserved better than my weakness.

She was gone. I knew it. But I reached for her anyway.

Because I had to.

My fingers pressed to her throat.

No flutter.

No pulse.

Just the echo of what she’d been.

Everything inside me broke—quietly. Completely.

Not with a sound.

Withsilence.

So absolute, it felt like a reckoning.

And still—my body moved. Acting on some ancient instinct, like it didn’t know how to stop.

Because stopping would mean dying. Because stillness would mean giving in.

I bent low and pressed my lips to her blood-slick forehead.

Her skin was warm.

Gods, it was still warm.

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