THIRTEEN
Elara snapped awake, but reality didn't slam into her—it curdled. She was shivering, her skin slick with a cold sweat. The blaze from the fountain had retreated, leaving her veins feeling like they had been hollowed out and filled with crushed glass. She curled into a ball, every breath tasted of the mundane—stale air and Lyra's floral perfume—and it made her want to gag.
Lyra was already there, perched on the edge of the mattress. She looked exhausted, her curls were an unpinned frizzy mess and her eyes were rimmed with red. She was staring at the hollow version of her friend with a dawning, jagged horror.
Hesitantly, she reached for Elara, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder.
The contact felt like a spark of ice against Elara’s feverish skin. Elara bolted upright, her b
