Page 103 of At the Mercy of Midnight
The vessel.
Silas.
Her desperation rose as she looked down another long hallway. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to get lost. Even if she found Silas, would she be able to get them out of here?
Her heart pounded harder, her body freezing as she stood just beyond the door of the large chamber. Amelia shuffled back a step, her spine hitting the rock wall. Her breaths sped up as she begun to panic.
It consumed her quickly, locking her joints into place, gasping to get the breaths in.
Amelia reached up, wrenching away the hood and mask so she might pull in more air.
She had felt this many times before, it was just rarer for her these days.
Her vision tunnelled, until all she could see was the curving rock wall ahead of her.
Without realising it, Amelia had closed her eyes, placing a hand to her chest. In her mind, Silas was there before her, placing his own hand over the fingers pressed to her sternum. He was whispering to her.
Breathe.
Breathe with me, Winslow.
She sucked in a deep breath, attempting to control the pace of it.
Slow in.
Slow out.
His bright blue eyes were before her, guiding her.
Her other hand shifted, feeling against the dusty rock wall by her hip. The surface was rough in places, smooth in others. She kept her focus there, at the tips of her fingers while she steadied her breathing slowly.
After a minute, Amelia opened her eyes, glancing around. The hallway was still blessedly empty.
She could do this.
Pushing away from the wall, she walked with her back straight, a clear purpose in her mind.
Get Silas.
Get out of there.
Determination rose like a building wave, ready to crest and break apart.
Amelia had always felt fragile and weak, using anything at her disposal to rise above and feel superior despite it. She refused to feel weak in this moment. The magic sizzled in her blood, tingling in her fingers. What she had absorbed when she entered the cave flowed through her, right there, accessible.
She would not let herself feel weak.
Amelia was strong.
She was powerful.
The ground around her shook with the dull hum of power, dust beginning to float from the low ceiling in little rivulets. But she was not afraid of it. Because it washer.
Silas’ body went rigid, ice curling through his veins as his mother stepped into the room. The lamp flickered, casting deep shadows over her face, highlighting the sharp lines of her expression. An expression of poise, control.
But her eyes.
He had known that look since childhood. It wasn’t cruelty. It was purpose.
