Amara hit the ground with a force that rattled her bones, her light flickering weakly as the air left her lungs. She scrambled to her feet, her surroundings unfamiliar and suffocating. The landscape was dark and oppressive, a twisted mirror of the plains she’d been standing on moments ago. Black spires jutted out of the ground, and the sky above was a swirling mass of red and black clouds. It felt alive, pulsing with malevolence.
“Damon!” she called, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness. No response. Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn’t feel him—not the comforting pull of their bond, nor the faint warmth of his presence. It was as if he had been torn away completely.
She clenched her fists, summoning her light again. It flared weakly, casting long shadows across the jagged ground.
