EMMA
Gravity was no longer a constant; it was a suggestion. The Chateâu de la Croix groaned, a deep, tectonic shriek of stone protesting against the laws of physics. The east wing didn't just crumble; it tilted, a slow-motion suicide into the dark ravine below. Dust, thick and tasting of pulverized history, billowed through the hallways, coating my tongue in the grit of a centuries-old legacy turned to ash.
I crawled through the debris of the mezzanine, my palms bleeding and my oxblood dress shredded into a battle flag of silk and soot.
"Gabriel!" I choked out, my voice raspy from the nitrate fumes still hanging in the air like a poisonous lace.
I found him near the grand staircase. He wasn't the invincible beast of the high peaks tonight. He was slumped against a shattered marble pill
