Page 161 of At the Mercy of Midnight
His cloak he had given her was heavy across her shoulders as she sucked in a sharp breath, the memories of her time under the rune’s obedience spell slamming into her with such force that she fell to her knees, cracking them on the stone.
“No,” she whispered, blinking away tears from her eyes, recalling the moment that she took the last of him, siphoned it from him, before he had disappeared in a swell of shadows.
She opened her mouth.
The sound she made, that echoed around the vast chamber, wasn’t human.
That feeling in her chest, she knew what it was.
The bond had broken, that tether which had been between them had been wrenched from her soul like a limb torn from her body.
She felt breathless and bereft, mind reeling with the realisation that he was gone.
Gone.
The chamber around her was quiet and terrible.
She was alone, surrounded by the stationary etchings of the people who had forced their hand, who were responsible for this terrible feeling inside of her.
Without his echo sitting within, she had never felt so alone in her entire life.
For a long time, she wept at the feeling, at the loss of him, at the final look in his eyes before he vanished.
She knelt by the pedestal until the sun started to go down, and the pressure of the oncoming night had her trembling, limbs stiff, rising to stand.
Amelia was so distracted, so distraught, she didn’t pause to wonder at the ongoing pulse of the unstable magic. Didn’t even wonder why the Rift still felt the same, nothing changed.
She reached into her pack numbly and pulled out a Waystone chip, staring down at the glowing rune. It was supposed to have been for both of them. They were going to travel back, hand in hand, triumphant.
Together.
Her lip trembled as she stared at it.
She didn’t even notice that the magic was riddling her body, strong and powerful, a mingling of hers and Silas’.
Amelia noticed nothing but her own quiet grief as she took up both of their packs and pressed the chip. The magic worked, ripping her away from the centre of the Rift until she was deposited easily at the large Waystone outside of East Town.
She walked, unfeeling, up the streets towards Brinkley’s cottage, her pack sitting heavily between her shoulders, Silas’ pack dangling from numb fingers.
Amelia didn’t notice that somewhere behind her, the Rift’s border only grew at a greater rate, threatening and writhing.
She didn’t notice any of it as fresh tears, hot and unrelenting, spilled down her cheeks.
“You bastard,” she whispered to herself as she walked past others in the growing twilight, people who had no idea of the maelstrom of emotions rising in her. “You absolute noble, infuriatingbastard.”
Her voice cracked, throat closing.
A bell tolled, but she barely heard it. Didn’t realise it was the bell of warning, not signalling the hour.
Someone rushed past, nudging her shoulder in their haste.
Amelia stumbled slightly, but barely flinched, just kept on walking with grim determination.
“The Rift!” someone cried. “It’s grown half a mile in the last hour!”
She paused then, the words filtering through the haze of her pain.
Amelia turned slowly.
