The air itself feelsheavy—each breath a battle against an atmosphere designed to consume rather than sustain.
Scent becomes a physical assault.
Sulfur and burnt memories mix with an older, enriched scent I can’t quite recognize and yet triggers uncertainty and longing. The smell of ancient rage, of civilizations reduced to ash, of promises broken across millennia.
My vampire senses, typically a blessing, become a curse—each inhalation a vivid catalog of destruction.
I peer at the others, confirming that I didn’t arrive in this place alone with the descending transition.
We’re all seemingly alive and present, but this new atmosphere isn’t for the average, let alone the weak.
Nikki suffers most visibly.
Her skin blisters and peels, a horrific transformation happening in real-time. Each breath comes as a labored gasp, her Fae heritage seemingly working against her in this unforgiving landscape. Sweat pours down her face, cutting clean trails through grime and desperation.
Atticus's hand finds mine, his grip a lifeline in this hellscape. I’m not sure how I feel about the touch initially, but I don’t push it away.
At least for now.
"Something's wrong," he mutters, crimson eyes scanning Nikki with a predatory intensity. "She shouldn't be this vulnerable."
Mortimer adjusts his glasses, the scholarly gesture incongruous against the backdrop of molten destruction, though they begin to fog up almost instantly.
"The realm is targeting her specifically. Her Fae magic is... suppressed. Neutralized."
Zeke moves with a grace that defies the oppressive environment.
Frost magic erupts from his hands—delicate, intricate patterns of ice that create a protective barrier around our small group. The contrast is stunning. Glacial magic fighting against an inferno that seems alive, sentient.
“Let me assist,” he speaks up, his willingness to help only making me want to make my way and leave them behind.
A part of me feels like they’re baggage, and yet another part, the quieter side doesn’t want to abandon them.
I feel...different.
Calm. Detached. Something fundamental has shifted during our transition from Year Two to this realm that will surely trigger the start of Year Three if I can only assume.
The heat doesn't touch me. The landscape doesn't threaten me.
I amseparate.
Untouchable.
"I will proceed alone," I announce, the words emerging with a coldness that cuts through the oppressive heat.
Pulling my hand away from Atticus, I’m looking in the direction that is calling me.
"My path is not yours to share."
Cassius's response is immediate. Visceral. His shadows surge forward, living tendrils of darkness that wrap around me—not to restrain, but toanchor.
To remind me that separation is no longer an option.
"You do not walk alone," he states.
Not a request, but what I can only assume is his declaration.
Memories crash through me like waves of molten fury.
