The drain didn’t "slam" into Finn. It anchored into him like rusted hooks, and I felt every millimeter of the connection.
I didn't just take his energy; I was siphoned his history. My fingers sank into his chest, not stopping at the skin, but pressing into the muscle as if he were made of wet clay. I felt the rhythmic, wet thud of his heart stuttering, a frantic bird trapped in a collapsing cage. I saw his memories leak into my mind like spilled ink: the smell of Sarah’s pine-scented hearth, the way he had looked at a girl named Lyra by the river, the weight of his first training sword.
"Elara... please..." Finn whispered, his voice a dry wheeze.
I didn't pull away. I couldn't. I watched as his eyes didn't just close, but turned into milky, sightless spheres of gray marble. The skin on
