Hope's POV.
The sight of Sarah — battered, broken, brutalized — hits me like a blow to the chest. My stomach churns, nausea rising like bile, and guilt crashes through me in unforgiving waves.
I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve chased her down, dragged her back if I had to. I should’ve told her that she belonged with us. That she mattered. That we weren’t whole without her. But I was too consumed by my own unraveling world — too focused on secrets, prophecies, and wounds I hadn’t yet begun to understand. And now... now she’s standing there, barely standing at all, held upright only by Malachai’s grip.
Her body is a map of torment — fresh bruises bloom over older ones, her face swollen, lips split, a gash slashed across her forehead. One eye is nearly swollen shut, and her arms dangle
