AMANDA
I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know if it’s the cold, or the exhaustion, or the thing that’s still crawling under my skin, burning me from the inside out. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe I’m not even here.
I fold my arms tighter around myself, curling in, trying to trap some of my own heat, but there’s nothing left. Just trembling muscles, bruised ribs, skin stretched too tight over aching bones. My teeth chatter, my breath spills out in shallow, ragged bursts.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out here. Hours? Days? I remember running. I remember the fire. The screaming. The sound of Theodus choking on his own agony. The way the air cracked apart, breaking like fragile glass beneath my hands.
And then I remember the cold.
The deep, hollow, all-consuming cold that settled
