Julian's POV
The air in the manor was no longer made of oxygen; it was made of water. I could feel it filling my lungs, a thick, freezing brine that tasted of limestone and ancient, stagnant grief.
I was back in the banquet hall, though the lights had gone out hours ago. I was huddled beneath the long oak table, the wood grain pressing against my back like the lid of a coffin. My hands were shredded—my fingernails broken and raw from clawing at the stone floor, trying to reach her. I could see her, even in the absolute dark. Nyx. She was sitting in that chair, the one at the center of the room, her silk dress shimmering with a light that didn't belong to this world. She was soaked, water dripping from her hair, pooling on the expensive rug, but she wasn't angry. That was the worst part.
