Page 159 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
It’s pandemonium. It’s apocalyptic—the way these kids feel.
This is the end.
They think this is the end.
I fall to my knees, trying to plug my ears and drown everyone out. Heels press against my fingers—people stepping on my hands—but it feels like nothing.
An arm wraps around my waist. I do nothing.
“Wendy.” Calista’s voice is tinged in annoyance. “Getup.”
When I meet her eyes, they’re heavy with fear. I feel it. She did it—she’s taken Desdemona’s necklace—and she was waiting for me. I’d been so focused on Lucian, then the crowd, that I didn’t feel her until now.
I ruined the plan. Because Calista isn’t waiting formeanymore. She’s waiting for someone to fix her mess. And it’s clear she’s lost control.
Across the room, Desdemona lies on the floor, convulsing. Her body shakes violently as the racing students charge at her.
They’re going to kill her.
It’s exactly what I want.
Desdemona is completely unaware of the danger she’s in. Of the angry students with eager faces. Her pupils have vanished, entirely unseeing. She’s stuck in a trance, the brown of her irises replaced by a coat of yellow.
Folk yellow. Memory yellow…
Memoriumyellow.
Her necklacehadto be the Soul Stone.That’sthe stone the prophecy mentioned. The stone that fractures time.
It must be.
The crowd of students are a second away from reaching her. She’s already convulsing—likely from Air or Light magic. She’s close to dead, regardless.
Iridescent veins of light split the air, streaking toward Desdemona. Fabric ignites in their wake—dresses and coats bursting into flame.
The air shrieks with power, wind whipping past me. It stops around Desdemona’s body, moving like a shield and colliding with the lightning, sparing her life.
Aralia steps before Desdemona, her eyes glowing with power. For a moment, I’m hopeful. Aralia will finish what they’ve all started.
Then her emotions fill me.
Aralia is Desdemona’s roommate, and somehow, she’s fallen into her trance—just like Lucian and Leiholan.
Fallen for the monster’s act.
Her wind blows dresses, tears curtains from windows, and pushes hair into eyes. My gown billows behind me, and my eyes sting as I try to keep them open. Even as I try to move forward, I barely make it a step.
Still, the students charge relentlessly. But even those who manage to outrun the wind don’t make it past Aralia. One by one, they falter, slamming into the invisible barrier like birdsagainst glass. Aralia steps forward. The barrier of wind moves around her, hard to see.
But I will be the one to get past her. I have to be.
A boy nears her. The closer he reaches, the stronger the wind surges. It pulls the flesh of his face back, and I have to look away, for fear that it will tear off.
Then I can’t breathe. My lungs seize, shriveling like they’ve been drained from the inside.
Not mine—theirs.
The boy is on his knees. His face is intact, for what it’s worth.
